


Do I Look Like Your Hero?

by SeeEmRunning



Series: Right Now (We'll Stand) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Christians, Bad Gilderoy Lockhart, Child Abuse, Forced Prostitution, Happy Ending, Mental Health Issues, Mentor Severus Snape, Misguided Dumbledore, Non-Explicit Sex, Slytherin Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 25
Words: 73,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeEmRunning/pseuds/SeeEmRunning
Summary: Hermione Granger is a Mudblood. Hermione Granger is a Slytherin. Hermione Granger is being prostituted out by her parents. When her parents are arrested, the Dark Lord returns, and her life spirals out of control, there's only one person she can trust: Professor Snape.(Not a romance. Gore, non-explicit CSA. Missing chapter added 2/18/17.)





	1. You Know What To Do

Ten-year-old Hermione Granger woke with a start. Straining her ears, she could just make out the creak of the floorboards.

 _Please let him just need the loo,_ she half-begged in prayer to whomever was listening - but, as she’d known it would, her door clicked open. He was so tall he had to duck to get inside her room.

 _Damn!_ she thought furiously. At least her mother wasn’t with him, this time; the nights she joined him were the worst.

“Wakey wakey, baby girl,” he said softly, sitting on her bed and pulling her hair away from her face.

“Dad?” she said.

“You know what to do, honey.”

She did.  
***  
“Breakfast on the stove,” her mother said absently, focused on the newspaper.

Hermione limped to the cupboard for a plate and a glass. She always drank milk with breakfast, one of the drawbacks of having dentists for parents. When she reached up to open the cupboard door, lightning ripped up her belly. She had to grab the counter for support. When it passed, she blinked back tears and tried again. This time she opened the cabinet without incident, and even managed to carry her breakfast to the table on her own.

Her father walked in. “Morning,” he said cheerfully, pressing a kiss to the top of Hermione’s head.

She forced a smile. “Morning, Dad,” she mumbled, picking up her drink to hide her face. She was always raw after a night like the one before.

“Morning, Leon. Breakfast on the stove.”

“Thanks, Jean. So, Hermione, there’s something your mother and I wanted to talk to you about.”

Hermione slowly lowered her glass of milk. “What’s that?”

“We’ve found you a job,” he said, beaming.

“A...job? But I’m ten!”

“Exactly. Plenty old enough to learn about the real world.”

“What is this job?”

“It’s uptown,” her mother said briskly. “At the Lolita Club.”

Hermione felt like she’d been slapped. She knew enough about Lolita to guess what they wanted from her. She fought to keep her voice steady as she asked, “And what will I be doing?”

“Entertaining,” her father said. “You start tonight. While you’re there, your name’s Dorcas.”

“But-”

Her mother slammed the paper down, making her jump. “No buts,” Mum said. “You’re old enough to have a job, baby. This is the best one available. Unless you’d rather be scrubbing floors in a cellar?”

Privately, Hermione thought she would. She knew better than to say that, though, or she’d end up in the Basement again. The very thought was enough to make her shudder.

“I didn’t think so,” Mum said. “Your shift is six at night to two in the morning.”

“But what about school?” Hermione blurted before she could help herself.

“What about it?” her mother asked. “It’s not like you need to study. You’re not going to be someone’s wife - you’re going to be a whore. You _know_ this.”

She swallowed hard. They ate the rest of their meals in silence, and then Hermione was sent back up to her room to sleep. She couldn’t, too worried about what was going to happen to her. What her parents did to her hurt. What the strangers did hurt more. And now she was going to be entertaining strangers all night?

She spent the entire time until lunch pacing and worrying and thinking. When Mum called her down for lunch, she was so lost in her thoughts she didn’t even notice the bitter taste of her milk. She fell asleep not half an hour after finishing the glass.

She woke with a pounding headache. A man in a white plastic mask was carrying her into a building. She started to squirm, and he growled. She immediately fell still, trying to figure out who he was.

“Good girl,” he said. The voice - it was Dad! “Sorry for the sleeping pill, but you need to be awake for tonight.” He kicked the door in a rhythm - Shave and a Haircut? Something like that - and continued, “Tonight’s your first night, so it’ll be rough, but you’ll get used to it soon enough.”

A panel slid open at eye level. “Password?”

“Vokoban,” Dad said promptly. The panel slid shut, and a moment later the door swung wide. Dad carried her down a hallway and turned right, then left, then right again. A man in a white plastic mask, identical to her father’s, opened the door at the end of the hall for them. The room held maybe five girls and two boys her own age or a little older, and one man in the same kind of plastic mask. All of the children were dressed in short skirts or shorts, a white button-down, and a tie.

Her father set her down, and her knees buckled. Hermione looked down at the traitors and sucked in a breath - her skirt barely hit her thighs!

“New girl, eh?” the man said. “What’s the program?”

“Whatever gets me the most,” Dad said.

The man nodded. “Name?”

“Dorcas.”

“Okay, Dorcas, follow me.” The man turned, clearly expecting her to do as she was bid.

When she didn’t, Dad cuffed her roughly. “Do as he says.”

Hermione grimaced and walked slowly to the man, who was already at a door on the other end of the room. He grabbed her arm as soon as she was close enough and towed her along behind him. She had to half-run to keep up. By the time they stopped, she was panting.

“Here’s the rules: someone asks you to do something, you do it. Don’t matter what. You disobey, you get punished. We’re creative with punishments. First night, you’re going to have some real fun.” He opened a red door and pulled her inside.

Hermione gasped in fright. It looked like the Basement, just bigger. Paddles, whips, and chains hung on the walls. There was a padded table in the middle of the room. Things Hermione couldn’t name lay around on racks, on tables, or on the floor.

He gripped her waist and lifted her onto the table. “Tonight you’re going to be the center of attention,” he promised her. “Mouth open.”

“Why?” she tried to ask, but the second she opened her mouth he pushed a rubber ball between her lips and fastened something behind her head. Her hands automatically went to remove it, and he slammed them down on the table, hard.

“Don’t fight me and this’ll hurt a whole lot less,” he breathed in her ear. “Clear?”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes, though whether that was from fright or pain she couldn’t say - he was gripping her wrists so hard she was sure there would be bruises.

“Good girl. Get on your knees, I’m gonna hogtie you.”

Soon she was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. He slapped her rump, making her too-short skirt flutter. “Let’s get you back to the party,” he said. She didn’t know the table had wheels until he was moving it.

That was when the nightmare truly began. When the long night was finally over, Dad said to her, “Same rules as the game at home, sweetheart. You say anything, they take you away from us and you’ll end up in a place they beat you half to death.”

Sure enough, the next week the newspaper held a story of a young boy in foster care whose caretakers had beaten him until he died. Her parents made sure she saw it, and to tell her that would be her if anyone ever found out what they were doing to prepare her for adulthood.

And for a year, that was how it went. She learned quickly and well, and before school began again in the fall she knew more about how to make men happy than she did of long division. In September she turned eleven, and for her birthday she was once more the center of attention at the club. Her father was happy with the extra money she brought in, and her parents took her to Tottenham Court Road once to shop. The best thing to be said about it was that during the week her parents didn’t want her to draw attention by falling asleep in class, and so she only ‘worked’ on Friday and Saturday nights.

But then, one day in early August, everything changed.

Hermione was asleep when the knock on the door came - over the summer she worked every night, and had gotten into nocturnal habits - and so she didn’t know what was going on until Mum came in to wake her. She quickly got dressed and brushed her teeth before going downstairs.

A tall, thin woman in a dark green dress was sitting on one of the two armchairs in the living room. She was old enough for her hair to be graying and her face to be wrinkled, but not yet old enough to be frail. She turned to look at Hermione when she walked in the room.

Hermione swallowed. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said weakly.

The woman smiled thinly. “It’s quite all right, Miss Granger," she said in a thick Scottish accent. "If you would join us, there’s something I need to discuss with the three of you.”

Hermione sat in an armchair rather than on the sofa with her parents. It meant she was catty-corner to the woman rather than across from her, but Hermione didn’t particularly want to be near Mum and Dad unless she had to be.

When she was settled, the woman cleared her throat and pulled a stick from beneath her robes. “My name is Professor McGonagall,” she said. “I teach at Hogwarts School. And you, Miss Granger, are a witch.”

The mantle clock ticked loudly as Hermione blinked at her. “Sorry?” she managed after a few seconds, wondering if perhaps the woman was mad.

“A witch,” McGonagall repeated, and a moment later a cat sat where she had been.

Dad yelled and jumped back, falling over the back of the couch since he was still sitting down. Mum choked on her tea. Hermione just stared.

The cat turned back into McGonagall, who simply looked at Hermione. “I’m sure you’ve had some strange things happen?”

Hermione continued to stare at her, but unbidden, the time a particularly rough man had been unable to touch her without breaking out into boils sprang to mind. Once her homework had appeared in her backpack after a few of the school bullies had ripped it to pieces in front of her. She’d fallen down the stairs just last week, and when she’d hit the bottom she could have sworn from the pain that her arm was broken, but as she’d watched the bruising had disappeared and the pain vanished. She’d thought she’d imagined it.

“You see?” McGonagall asked. “Now. I teach at a school that exists to train witches and wizards-”

“A school?” Hermione’s mother choked out.

“Yes,” McGonagall said. “A school. To teach Miss Granger to control her magic before she hurts someone.”

Dad finally stood up. “Too late for that,” he grumbled.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “What has she done?”

“One of my friends came out in boils,” he said. “We’d thought it an allergic reaction, but if she’s a witch….”

“I am aware,” McGonagall said quickly, “that often non-magical people think that magic comes from the devil. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Says you!” Mum said. “The Bible-”

“Was written thousands of years ago,” McGonagall interrupted. “It’s been translated. Certain messages are always lost in translation.”

“It’s the Word of God!”

“Written by men,” McGonagall said smoothly. “Theology aside, your daughter must come to Hogwarts to learn to control her magic.”

“Is it a day school?” Hermione asked before Mum or Dad could say anything else.

“Boarding,” McGonagall said.

Hope swelled in her chest. She could get away from work? “For how long?”

“The train leaves on the first of September and returns on the thirty-first of June. You will have the option to return for the Christmas holiday.”

“Can I go, Mum? Dad? Please?”

“I don’t know,” Dad said slowly. “How much is tuition?”

“Not a pound,” McGonagall said promptly. “The Ministry of Magic recognizes that education is absolutely essential, and so seven years of education are free to the public. The only expense is school supplies, which you would be buying even if your daughter went to a Muggle school.”

Seven years? And only home for two months a year?

“Please, Mum? Please, Dad?”

They looked at each other, having one of those silent conversations they were so good at. “Fine,” Mum said eventually. “But on one condition: if your marks fall too far, you’re coming straight back home.”

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. “I’m afraid that our subjects are not the same as your schools’.”

“Then what do you teach?” Dad demanded.

“All of our subjects are magical in nature. Generally first-years write one essay per week, and we gradually add on until they are writing one essay per class per week.”

“Maths?” Mum asked faintly.

“We do have an Arithmancy class. That is available to third-years and up.”

They sat silent for a moment, digesting this, and then Dad said, “You’ll do a homeschool program as well, then. I won’t have you getting behind.”

“But I can go?”

“Yes, you can go,” Mum said.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Hermione said, beaming.

McGonagall leaned forward and tapped a letter sitting on the coffee table. Hermione hadn’t even noticed it before now. “Your supply list is enclosed. The trip for Muggle families - non-magical families, that is - is next Saturday, the seventeenth of August, at ten in the morning. We meet at the Museum of London. It can be rather overwhelming for Muggle families, so all of the Muggle-born students go together with a teacher to guide them.”

“Thank you very much,” Mum said.

“I have a few more families to talk to today, so if you have no more questions…?”

“I’ll show you out,” Dad said.

“No need, Mr. Granger,” McGonagall said, and with a loud _CRACK!_ , she disappeared.


	2. Welcome to Diagon Alley

17 August came and went. Hermione met Justin Finch-Fletchley, Sally-Anne Perks, Megan Jones, and Kevin Entwhistle, apparently the only other Muggle-borns in her year. Megan and Sally-Anne immediately clumped together, apparently friends already. Justin and Kevin gravitated towards each other. That left Hermione on her own, not that she minded.

McGonagall led them all through a dingy pub, nodding to those who greeted her. They exited through the back and came to a small alleyway. McGonagall pulled out her stick and tapped a single brick; the wall vanished, leaving an archway.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley,” McGonagall announced, leading them through. “Our first stop is Gringotts, the bank, to let you all exchange pounds for our money.” She explained the currency as they went: 24 Knuts to a Sickle, 17 Sickles to a Galleon. One Galleon was about five pounds.

The buildings were unlike anything Hermione had ever seen. Some of them seemed too tall to exist. Some had displays that floated in mid-air. Some were made of marble. One was pure gold.

The bank was one of the ones made of marble. A funny-looking little man pulled open the doors for them, stopping Hermione’s attempt to read what was written there. McGonagall led them to a tall counter, where they all exchanged normal money for wizarding gold, and then back out. She took them to an apothecary, to a robe shop, to a bookstore (where Hermione successfully convinced Dad to let her get some extra books), and then, finally, the wand shop.

Ollivander was a wizened old man with rheumy eyes. Justin was first up, and the first wand he tried set the counter on fire. Ollivander snatched it back. The second wand made the drawers on Ollivander’s desk fly out with a loud _BANG!_ The third wand shot bronze sparks when he took it in his hand.

Sally-Anne was next, and after a few mishaps she, too, found her wand. Megan and Kevin found theirs, Megan after six attempts and Kevin after four, and then it was Hermione’s turn.

“Here we are, then, holly and unicorn tail hair, nine inches,” Ollivander said, handing her a stick that looked just like all the others to her. She took it, and sparks flew from the end to set a fire at her feet.

Ollivander snatched it back from her and replaced it with another. “Vine and dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarter inches, good for charms and transfiguration.”

The moment she took it in her hand warmth spread through her. She swished it through the air, producing blue sparks that spiralled around her.

“Very good, then,” Ollivander said.

McGonagall led them back out to regular London, and even though she worked that night, Hermione’s mind was so fixed on magic that she could almost ignore the long line of adults in favor of dreaming about Hogwarts.

What would it be like? Would the other students think she was as weird as her current schoolmates did? What would she be learning? Would she be happy? Were the teachers nice? Would the teachers expect her to serve them as she did her parents? What about the older students? What did the school look like?

Every morning for the next two weeks, Hermione read through her schoolbooks for an hour, fascinated by everything she was reading and attempting a charm or two of her own. She got through her nights by imagining Hogwarts in vivid detail, creating a school of a haunted house with creaky doors and cauldrons over fires and adults who swooped into decrepit classrooms on broomsticks.

The day she was set to go to Kings Cross Station, her parents hugged her, wished her luck, and sent her on her way in a taxicab.  
***  
After a long train ride and short boat ride, during which a forgetful boy named Neville Longbottom lost and found his toad, Hermione stood at last in a small room just off the Entrance Hall and waited for Professor McGonagall to return to them.

Transparent, pearlescent figures burst through the wall while they were waiting. The figures argued about letting somebody do something before one of them - a monk? - saw them gaping up at their unexpected guests.

“Oh, hello,” he said jovially. “Hope you lot are in Hufflepuff...my old House, you know!”

“Move along,” McGonagall’s voice said sharply, and Hermione turned to see her standing in the now-open door. “The rest of you, line up and follow me.”

The ghosts went through the wall as the new students followed her out the door, through the Entrance Hall, and into what she called the Great Hall. There were four long tables packed with students; above them floated candles, no support visible. Looking beyond that Hermione could see the sky.

“How did they do that?” the boy next to her whispered.

Hermione knew that one! “It’s enchanted,” she whispered back. To the boy’s startled look, she explained, “I read about it in _Hogwarts, a History._ ”

They came to a stop in front of a school with an old, torn-up hat on it. As they watched, a rip near the brim opened and it began to _sing._

_Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,_  
But don’t judge by what you see;  
I’ll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me. 

_You can keep your bowlers black,_  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all. 

_There's nothing hidden in your head_  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be. 

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart. 

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil. 

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_  
if you've a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind. 

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folks use any means  
To achieve their ends. 

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands, though I have none,  
For I'm a Thinking Cap! 

Applause burst forth from the older students. Hermione stared at the hat, bewildered. So they just had to put it on? And it would tell her where she should go? But she didn’t fit into any of them! She wasn’t daring at all, or she would have asked for help and chanced being taken to a bad family; though she worked all night every night, it was reluctant, and if she was loyal she wouldn’t have left her family; she wasn’t wise or smart at all, even though her marks were good; and if she was cunning she would have found a way to quit her hated job _years_ ago. If there were a House for people without much to offer, that was where she would go.

She was so busy worrying she almost missed McGonagall calling, “Granger, Hermione!” She hurried forward, tripping a bit in surprise, and sat on the stool. McGonagall lowered the hat onto her head, and a small voice whispered in her ear, _So what to do with you, Miss Granger?_

She jumped. _Um,_ she thought coherently.

_Um, indeed. Let’s see here. Dear me, you’re quite resilient, aren’t you? Very much a bend-without-breaking type. That stubbornness would serve you well in Gryffindor or Slytherin. You’re smart, too, but you don’t value knowledge quite the way a Ravenclaw would or work the way a Hufflepuff does. So...Gryffindor, or Slytherin?_

When she realized it was waiting on an answer from her, she thought helplessly, _But I don’t know anything about either of them! I’m not brave and I’m not cunning!_

The hat was silent for a moment, and she had the oddest feeling of it rifling through her mind; then she heard, _You’re rather more interested in self-preservation than a grand show of bravery, aren’t you? Better be-_

_“SLYTHERIN!_ ” it roared to the Great Hall, and applause burst from the table dressed in green. Hermione handed the hat to an astonished-looking McGonagall and hurried away, glad it was over. She sat next to another first-year (Gregory Goyle?) and said, “Hi,” rather breathlessly.

“Hi,” he and the boy next to him chorused.

A moment later, “Malfoy, Draco!” was sorted into Slytherin, and Hermione grinned at him as he sat down. “Hello,” she said cheerfully.

He ignored her.


	3. A Habit of Meeting Trolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first few chapters are short, I know, but soon the plot really starts!

Malfoy ignoring her rather set the tone for the rest of term. The girls in her dorm pretended she didn’t exist, and the rest of the Slytherins did the same. When she tried to approach anyone else in first year, they hurried away, glaring daggers at her. Walking up to anyone in another year was a good way to be hexed - she learned that one the hard way when she got hit with a Full-Body Bind and had to wait six hours for it to wear off because nobody willing to remove it wandered by in all that time.

She hoped that winning Slytherin points by answering questions in class would gain her some respect, but instead, she became the know-it-all. The other first-years slowly stopped ignoring her and started mocking her. The day they worked on the Levitation Charm with Professor Flitwick and she was the only one to make her feather fly, Millicent Bulstrode and Malfoy both shoved her on their way out the door, Malfoy hissing, “Mudblood,” on his way past.

She knew what a Mudblood was, of course - you couldn’t be in Slytherin and _not_ know - but it was the first time anyone had directed it toward her, specifically, and tears unexpectedly filled her eyes. She dashed to the bathroom and locked herself in a stall, where all the stress of the past two months came out in a flood. She found herself thinking of home and the pain with a twisted kind of longing - at least her parents wanted her and she knew what was coming next, which was more than could be said for this godforsaken place, where the only attention she got was name-calling and she could still barely get around without falling into a trick step or trying to open a door that was actually a wall in disguise.

She actually threw up from how hard she was crying, and the smell of her vomit made her sick again, and again, until there was nothing left to come up. She left the stall to wash her mouth and was confronted by a large piece of wood she could have sworn hadn’t been there earlier. She looked up to see what it was, and saw a large, green-skinned - _thing_ \- with a head far too small for its massive shoulders. It grunted at her and raised the club.

Hermione screamed and jumped back into the stall. The club smashed through the wood, and she ducked, covering her head. Covered in splinters, she squinted up to see the club coming straight down at her, and she threw herself forward, crawling toward the meager protection of the sinks. She screamed again when the club came down on the porcelain and scrambled away, tucking herself into the corner, all thoughts of magic gone. She was going to die, she was going to be killed, at least her dorm-mates would be happy she wasn’t around anymore-

She couldn’t give them that satisfaction.

The club was raised again, and Hermione’s eyes darted frantically for something, anything, she could use - for somewhere, anywhere, to hide. There was nothing to grab and nowhere to go. It was blocking the only exit.

She shoved herself out of the corner when the club started to come down. It knocked a stone out of place and got stuck, wedged by something she couldn’t see. She started to crawl towards the door while the thing was distracted by getting it loose.

Three voices yelled something she couldn’t understand. The thing swayed, then toppled forward, pinning Hermione’s legs beneath its chest.

Someone was grabbing her arms and pulling her out from under it and saying, “Come on, Miss Granger, calm down, it can’t hurt you.” Someone else opened her mouth and poured something into it, making her choke and splutter - but it did make her feel better, and slowly she became aware of Snape in front of her, McGonagall to the side, and Quirrell sitting on a toilet with his head in his hands.

She found her voice. “What-” she croaked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What is that thing?”

“A mountain troll,” Snape said crisply. “Why are you not in your dormitory?”

Hermione blinked at him, heart slowing. “I - I must have lost track of time.”

“Why are you here?” McGonagall asked, clearly rephrasing Snape’s question.

Hermione blinked at her. “I - I needed the loo after Charms,” she said weakly.

“You’ve been here since classes?” Snape asked sharply. Hermione nodded. “That was well over an hour ago.”

“I wasn’t feeling well,” she said defensively.

“Then why not go to Madam Pomfrey?”

“I don’t know how to get there,” she admitted.

McGonagall closed her eyes and muttered something about Dumbledore and maps. When she opened them again, though, all she said was, “Are you all right now?”

Hermione looked down at her bruised, scratched skin and said, “I think so. Nothing that won’t heal on its own. Are you okay?”

“We’re fine,” Snape said, sounding annoyed. “Come on, back to the dormitory.”

She nodded. Belatedly remembering her manners, she said, “Er - thanks.”

“Of course, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said. With a flicker of a smile, she added, “Do try not to make a habit of meeting trolls.”


	4. It Falls to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is how first year passes: not with bangs, but with whimpers.

To Hermione’s chagrin, tales of her meeting the troll spread through the school like wildfire. In less than a week she’d been beaten half to death by it, her arm eaten and then regrown by Madam Pomfrey. She rolled her eyes at the rumors and did her best to focus on classes.

By November, however, there was another tale of her to tell. Snape set them all to brewing Forgetfulness Potion in class, and Hermione accidentally brushed her arm with a sprig of valerian. Ten minutes later, there were hives up to her shoulder. They stung painfully. “Professor Snape?” she said timidly.

He scowled as he came over. “What is it?”

“Er...my arm,” she said, pulling up her sleeve to show him.

He pulled a dragonhide glove on and took her hand to pull her arm closer. After scrutinizing the hives, he said, “It appears you’re allergic to valerian. Wait here a moment.”

He swept to his desk and opened one of the drawers. She heard the clinking of potion bottles, and a moment later, he returned with a bright-pink potion, which he slathered onto her arm. Cool relief sank in almost instantly.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Be more careful. Potter, what is _that_ supposed to be?”

After class, her yearmates mocked her, saying no one worth being at Hogwarts would be allergic to valerian. That was what she got, for being a Mudblood and having no knowledge of their way of life.

Lost in her misery, she lost track of time. Almost before she knew it, prefects were coming around with pieces of parchment for those who were staying over the holidays. Hermione was the only Slytherin to put down their name, and so she had the common room to herself for the entire break. She spent it sleeping in and doing her homework. She sent home a letter and received no reply. She hadn’t been expecting a gift; to her family, Christmas was to celebrate the birth of Christ, not to spoil each other with _things._

She mourned the quiet when the castle filled up again. She also missed her ability to sleep whenever she wanted; she was more tired than she cared to admit.

On a Saturday in mid-January, Snape called the first-years to his office just after breakfast. When they were all inside, Snape gestured them to sit on the chairs that sat in a semicircle before his desk. Hermione chose a seat at the far right end, wondering why they’d all been called before him.

Snape sat behind the desk. “During your first few years at Hogwarts,” he said in his customarily quiet voice, “it is usual to begin puberty. If you have not already, it will happen while you are here. Since Madam Pomfrey cannot possibly educate the entire school, it falls to me to educate Slytherin.

“I will assume that none of you know anything, because for the most part, your parents are horrific at talking to you about this. Whether they’re incompetent at explaining or simply do not know what they are talking about depends on who they are.

“The first thing we need to discuss is the difference between men and women.”  
***  
Three hours later they were sent to lunch. Hermione’s head was spinning. So that was what sex was? And it was for making babies? But she couldn’t have babies yet, so why were men paying to have sex with her? Snape had said it could feel good, but it had never felt good to her; did it feel good to them?

And was what they were doing rape? Snape had said it was rape if either party didn’t want to have sex, and if one person was under seventeen that was also rape, but if she didn’t know what it was did it count? Did it count if the men doing it were Muggles? And paying?

How long until she started to have babies because she was having sex? Snape had said it couldn’t happen before she started her period, and she knew that hadn’t happened yet, but what about when it did?

She couldn’t ask Snape about it. She still remembered that if she told anyone she’d end up in a home, and that news article about the poor boy whose horrid foster parents had beaten him to death. It would happen to her if she talked to anyone outside her family.

Did being underage and being paid mean _she_ was doing something wrong? Her parents were good people, so if she got taken away, it would be her fault. They only wanted what was best for her; it wasn’t like good marks meant anything in the real world, and she had no people skills, so if sex was what they thought she’d be good at then sex was what she would be good at. Besides, men wanted virgin wives, and after her cousin when she was six-

Maybe there were books in the library to make her better; she’d never heard complaints, but her mother’s favorite saying was “There’s always room for improvement.” She left her yearmates in the Entrance Hall, ascending to the second floor and the library. The only sex books she could find had to do with what Snape had talked about earlier, and she left for Herbology in an odd mix of disappointment and relief. Maybe she could ask her parents? They’d had to have sex to have her, after all.

No. If she asked she might have to work more. That was the last thing she wanted. Sex hurt, despite all the books’ claims that it was supposed to feel good and Snape’s clinical description of orgasms. She didn’t want to do it any more than she had to.

That decided, she settled into her seat in Greenhouse One and waited for Sprout to begin her lecture on Flutterby bushes.

Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about Snape’s words - mostly “illegal”, “wrong”, and “disgusting”. Over the next months, she nearly obsessed over them, trying to put the puzzle together. Her parents wouldn’t do anything illegal, wrong or disgusting, but apparently having sex with her was all of them at once. If it wasn’t her parents doing the disgusting things, it must be Hermione. _Hermione_ was the one who was wrong and disgusting. That was the only explanation, confirmed when her breasts began to grow in March. Though small, they hurt, and that pain was the confirmation that there was something deeply wrong with her. She didn’t think they were supposed to hurt.

Preoccupied with her musings, she was barely aware of the passage of time, and before she knew it the end of the year was upon them. She spent the week after exams scrambling to do the homeschooling book her parents had sent with her.

Slytherin won the House Cup for the eighth year in a row. Quirrell didn’t show up to the Leaving Feast, but that was all right; nobody liked him anyway, and according to rumor the Defense professor changed every year anyway. On June 1 she packed and left to catch the train, not looking forward to going home but excited about seeing her parents.


	5. Enemies of the Heir, Beware!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second year begins, bringing with it another Defense professor of dubious quality.

Hermione sighed when her new watch beeped at her, reminding her it was time to take her medicine. Her mother had gotten them for her, saying they would keep her from getting pregnant at work. She had to take them at the same time every day. She popped the tiny tablet from the blister pack and swallowed it with a cup of lukewarm tea that had been cooling on her desk while she packed to return to Hogwarts.

After dinner, Hermione got ready for bed, wincing when she saw the finger-shaped bruises on her developing breasts. The men who paid for her liked the way she squealed when they played with them. One in particular, a blond man with too-white teeth and a face all over the Wizarding world, liked to make her suck a lollipop while he slapped them around.

The next morning Mum and Dad drove her to Kings Cross Station, kissed her cheek, and sent her off with strict instructions to stay out of trouble and do her homeschooling work.

She slept most of the way to Hogwarts, waking briefly when a redhead and a blonde, both first-years, joined her carriage. She grumbled out a, “Hullo - wuzzat? - yeah, sit here, that’s fine,” and passed out again.

They shook her awake. “A prefect said we’re a half hour away,” the redhead said, somewhat apologetically.

Hermione stifled a yawn. “Best change, then.”

“I’m Ginny Weasley,” the redhead said.

“Luna Lovegood. Do you have variegated momes in your hair? They can make you sleepy, you know.”

She blinked as she pulled down her robes. “Hermione. Granger.”

Like her, the other two girls just put their robes on what they were wearing. When Weasley caught sight of the green on Hermione’s tie, her eyes widened. “You’re in Slytherin?”

There was a definite note of fear in her voice. Hermione rolled her eyes. “Relax, Weasley. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“O- okay,” she said shakily.

“I’m going to the loo,” she said shortly. “If I’m not back before the train stops, just listen for Hagrid when you get off, he’s really loud and you’ll go up to the castle with him.”

She had no intention of returning to the carriage before the train stopped. Instead, she sauntered to the loo - well, as much as she _could_ saunter with the pain in her abdomen - locked herself in, and cursed the colors on her robes. Her House hated her for her blood and her school hated her for her House. She wished like hell she’d chosen Gryffindor before the hat chose for her.

The train jolted to a stop. She opened the door and joined the students jostling to get outside, ignoring the elbows in her ribs. She let the mass sweep her out onto the platform and, ignoring Hagrid’s calls of “Firs’ year, this way”, followed them along a path that led to a series of carriages without anything pulling them. She got in one, uncaring of her fellow passengers, and watched the Forbidden Forest roll by outside.

The carriage came to a stop outside the doors to the castle. Hermione waited for the others - upperclass Hufflepuffs, by the look of them - to get off before she did, climbing down the stairs and straightening her robe.

There was a man at the teachers’ table. He had blonde hair and a dazzling smile. Though he wore robes, she knew exactly who he was, and had since she’d purchased her Defense books for the year.

A client. 

Gilderoy Lockhart was a client, and a brutal one. Her footsteps faltered. Discovering he was a wizard had been bad enough, but now he was at Hogwarts? Why?

She made herself keep walking forward to sit at the Slytherin table. Snape, frowning, looked out the window and swept from the room moments before the first-years entered through the main doors. Hermione picked out Ginny Weasley’s shock of red hair and Luna Lovegood’s bright blue eyes. Luna looked at her and Hermione smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging way, though her lips trembled.

The Sorting Hat sang its song, and then McGonagall cleared her throat. “When I call your name, you will step forward to be Sorted,” she said. “Abernathy, Deanna!”

Abernathy went to Hufflepuff. Hermione tuned out for most of it, though she clapped when a new Slytherin joined. She also clapped for Luna Lovegood, who went to Ravenclaw, and Ginny Weasley, the last to be Sorted into Gryffindor. When McGonagall had carried the stool out of the Great Hall, Dumbledore stood.

“Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!” he said happily. “We have had a staffing change, and I should like to get that out of the way before we all become befuddled by our excellent feast. Gilderoy Lockhart will take the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor!”

They all clapped, some more enthusiastically than others. Hermione numbly followed the crowd’s actions. Bulstrode and Parkinson were looking at Lockhart adoringly, and Hermione felt a sick swoop in her stomach.

She barely noticed Dumbledore and McGonagall leaving and returning during the main course. Instead, she stared down at her plate, her bushy hair hiding her face, mind working furiously. Why did it have to be _him?_ she wondered as the main dishes sparkled off to be replaced with desserts. There was no chance he wouldn’t recognize her - he’d told her in July how much he loved her mouth. He’d even give her a lollipop to keep in her mouth while he had sex with her. He requested her every time he was in.

So what to do about it?

She was still trying to figure it out when Dumbledore stood to announce Quidditch tryouts, the rules, and forbidden items, and warn them against going into the forest. She listened with just half an ear; she didn’t care about Quidditch, she had no desire to enter the forest, and just buying her schoolbooks had been enough of a hassle without adding prank items on top of it. She only listened enough to know when he finished.

She slept badly that night, haunted by dreams in which Lockhart had sex with her in the Great Hall, in front of everybody, and they all laughed and called her a disgusting slag. Hermione woke early and showered, trying to get the remembered hands off her body and failing.

Snape passed out their schedules during breakfast, and Hermione’s heart sank. Defense was their very first class! She wasn’t going to have any more time to figure out how to handle this. She spent the rest of breakfast listlessly drawing patterns in her oatmeal with her spoon, ignoring the Mudblood ‘jokes’ that inevitably cropped up in her hearing. She left the table when the rest of the second-years did and trailed behind silently.

Lockhart bounced into the classroom barely a minute before class began, looking at the nine of them and grinning. It faded only slightly when he saw Hermione.

“Right, then,” he said. “Let’s start with a quiz, to see how well you all read my books!” With a flick of his wand, papers came flying off the desk to land in front of them with a quiet _thump._ Hermione pulled out a quill and a pot of ink, hating herself for not reading the books; she hadn’t been able to bring herself even to open them, not with his face beaming at her from the covers.

_1\. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?_

She stared at the paper in disbelief. How should she know? She jotted a guess and moved on.

Every question was like that. _What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition? What would be Gilderoy Lockhart’s ideal birthday present? How many times has Gilderoy Lockhart won Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award?_

“Time!” Lockhart called brightly. Hermione scowled and put away her quill as the papers flew through the air toward him. How idiotic was that?

Lockhart leafed through the quizzes. “Dear me, not one of you read the books thoroughly. My favorite color is lilac, I say that in _Year of the Yeti._ Most of you were able to get at least a few right...except” - he flipped someone’s paper over and scanned the back - “Miss Granger, you got every single question wrong. Detention, tonight, after dinner, for not even _looking_ through the books.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but knowing him as she did, she closed it without speaking. She just scribbled notes on pixies for the remaining fifteen minutes of class.

And so it was that she found herself knocking on Lockhart’s office door at seven-thirty that night.

“Come in,” he called congenially. Hermione steeled herself and entered. “Close the door,” he ordered without looking up from whatever he was writing.

Surely he wouldn’t do anything to her? He was her teacher now, after all. She closed the door and stood in front of his desk.

“Well,” he said finally, putting his quill away, “this is quite a surprise. I thought your name was Dorcas.”

Hermione’s lips thinned. “Not here I’m not.”

“Well, then, _Hermione._ How should we punish you?”

There was a sadistic light in Lockhart’s eyes that Hermione didn’t like. “If you do anything I’ll tell Dumbledore,” she said.

Lockhart laughed. “No you won’t. Because then he’ll find out just what kind of cheap whore you are.”

“I’m not a-”

“You have sex for money. You’re a whore, Hermione, and a damn good one.” He sighed and settled back. “I have a proposition for you. You do what I tell you, and I pass you.”

“No,” Hermione said. “I don’t do that here.”

Lockhart smiled. “If you don’t do it, you’ll fail. How will your parents like that?”

When Hermione remained silent, he said, “I’m not a monster. I won’t force you. I’m sure someone else would be happy to...entertain me, if you won’t. Perhaps Miss Parkinson?”

The veiled threat was all too clear: either she did as he asked or he’d find someone else, someone who didn’t already know what he did, and she’d fail besides.

“What do you want?” she asked resentfully.

“That’s the spirit! Lose the knickers and bend over the desk.”

She went back to Slytherin that night feeling helpless and ashamed. She was to see Lockhart three nights a week for “private tutoring”. What kind of witch was she if she couldn’t keep people from having sex with her when she didn’t want them to?

When she got her first Transfiguration essay back, she decided she needed to learn to stop thinking about the questions that swirled in her head. She’d done abysmally.

The hours spent in Lockhart’s office didn’t help, either. The other Slytherins mocked her loudly for needing so much extra help. When Parkinson joined in, Hermione shoved away the flash of pain. The other girl didn’t know Hermione was being “tutored” so she wouldn’t have to be.

There were the nightmares, too, of Lockhart shoving her against the wall in the Great Hall, forcing her down on the Quidditch pitch, humiliating her while the whole school watched. Most nights she woke crying and couldn’t get back to sleep. Some nights she woke up damp between her thighs and was horrified at herself. Sex was bad. Sex was pain. Why was her body telling her it wanted it?

Halloween was a Saturday. Lockhart found her at breakfast and said, “We need to talk about your latest essay. Come by my office when you’re done eating.”

“You’re getting tutored three days a week and you’re _still_ failing?” Malfoy said. “Ha!”

Hermione just barely refrained from making a very rude gesture. Instead she focused on her fruit and tried to get into the blank, floaty mindset that kept her sane through the long summer nights.

To her eternal shame, Lockhart managed to make her orgasm. He was delighted with himself and spent the rest of the day trying to make it happen again, only accepting defeat when it was time for the Halloween Feast. Rather than go to the Great Hall and face the rest of the school, Hermione positively fled to the Slytherin dorms, muttering a hurried, “'Scuse me,” to Ginny Weasley when she literally ran into the younger girl on the second floor between the library and the girls’ toilets. She flung herself onto her bed and sobbed. She’d never orgasmed before, and now she had during sex for which was being - blackmailed? Extorted? Who cared what the proper word was?

Her tears had mostly stopped when she heard the door of the dorm open and the other second-year girls came in. “Enemies of the heir, beware,” Bulstrode said mockingly. “How long d’you reckon Granger’s got?”

“Where is she, anyway?” Parkinson asked. “She wasn’t at the feast.”

“Who cares?” Greengrass asked dismissively. “Maybe whatever got Mrs. Norris got her, too!”

Hermione shoved her face back into her pillow as the tears began anew.


	6. What Happened to You?

Hermione very quickly learned that something had Petrified Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat; that Harry Potter was the prime suspect; and that the words, “The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware,” had been written on second-floor walls in what seemed to be blood. The general consensus was the the Heir of Slytherin’s enemies were Mudbloods.

A week after Lockhart had called her into his office for a full day was the first Quidditch match of term. Hermione didn’t attend, opting instead to sleep in and then do homework that had piled up over the course of the week. Lockhart found her in the library around three in the afternoon and dragged her to his office. Around dinnertime she found out why he was in such a foul mood: he’d tried a healing spell on Harry Potter and removed all the bones in his right arm. 

By the time she was released it was well after midnight. She staggered and stumbled back to the common room, as uncoordinated from pain as from exhaustion. As tired as she was, she couldn’t get comfortable in her bed. It was an uneasy night’s sleep, cut short the next morning by Parkinson, Bulstrode, and Greengrass exclaiming loudly over the Petrification of a first-year Gryffindor named Colin Creevey. Hermione buried her head back under her pillows and wished she had some way to stop feeling like this all the time. She didn’t get out of bed until dinner, and even then it was only because her stomach was growling too loudly to ignore.

The next weeks saw protective amulets and talismans being sold and traded like Chocolate Frog cards. Hermione didn’t bother; what was the point of it? It wasn’t like anyone would miss her if she was gone, except maybe Lockhart, and he didn’t count. Her parents, who had put her in this position to begin with, could go to hell as far as she was concerned. So could her schoolwork, which went undone.

With the Petrification of Colin Creevey came a sharp upswing in anti-Slytherin sentiment within the school. More than once a Slytherin had to report to the hospital wing because of a sneaky, and sometimes not-so-sneaky, hex. Hermione was largely protected by virtue of being Muggle-born, but some students didn’t care and hexed her regardless. Hermione found herself in the odd position of dreading being hexed, because it was unpleasant, and looking forward to it, because it was the only time her mind shut up and she could properly breathe.

The second week of December notices went up, announcing a Dueling Club. Hermione ignored it; she couldn’t protect herself anyway, even with magic, so why bother even trying? She almost regretted it when those who had gone came back chattering about Harry Potter being able to talk to snakes.

There was an attack the very next day. Justin Finch-Fletchley, with whom she’d first gone to Diagon Alley, had been Petrified. So too had Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor House ghost. Lockhart was in a foul mood, both from the Dueling Club and the attacks, and Hermione had such a rough night she didn’t make it back to the common room until nearly four in the morning. She was just glad Filch was still spending his time ‘guarding’ the section of corridor where Mrs. Norris had been attacked, since it meant she could sneak through the halls without detention from detection.

Hermione woke late the next morning. Thinking she was alone, she stretched when she stood up.

“Granger?” someone blurted.

She turned around, dropping her arms. Parkinson and Bulstrode were on Bulstrode’s bed, looking at her with twin expressions of horror.

“What happened to you?” Parkinson whispered.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, heart pounding.

“You’re covered in bruises.” Bulstrode stood up. “Is someone hurting you?”

Hermione gave a short laugh that sounded false even to her. “I fell when the staircases moved.”

“That’s a hand on your arm,” Parkinson said.

Hermione looked down, cursing her short sleeves when she saw that there was, indeed, a hand-shaped bruise on her forearm.

“Oh, that,” she said. “I - um - I don’t sleep well. I must’ve grabbed myself too hard.”

The other girls traded sceptical glances. Parkinson stood to join Bulstrode. “We’re not stupid, Granger,” she said.

“When did I say you were?”

Her attempt at deflection failed miserably. “Tell us,” Bulstrode said, “or we’re going to Snape.”

Hermione flinched. “Why?” she asked plaintively.

“Because someone’s hurting you, so tell. Us.”

Hermione stared at Parkinson, mind working furiously. “I was coming back from tutoring with Lockhart and some of the older students grabbed me,” she lied. “You know how they feel about Slytherins.”

“What House?”

“Gryffindor. And Ravenclaw.”

“You know who they were?”

Hermione shook her head, ignoring the twinge it caused. “I didn’t recognize them.”

The other two girls exchanged a long glance. “Okay,” Parkinson said reluctantly.

Lockhart called her in again on Saturday. Hermione told him that some of her dorm-mates had seen the bruises. He told her to be more careful and swept her legs out from under her.

Two days later was the end of term. Hermione was the only Slytherin girl staying; Lockhart was delighted, since it meant he could keep her in his office as long as he wanted without raising any suspicion. Hermione was horrified by some of the things he came up with. In less than a week, she was bruised, covered in cuts, and barely able to walk to Christmas dinner. The only thing that kept her from telling somebody was knowing that Lockhart would happily tell them that she was a whore, and so deserved whatever he gave her. If he told them, she might be taken away from her parents, and it would get around the school, and she would be the target of every horny person in the school and have to have sex as long as they paid her.

She couldn’t let that happen, so she kept her mouth shut and took what he dished out until the other Slytherins came back two weeks later. She was very careful to keep herself covered from the neck down until the bruises faded near the beginning of February. Even then she didn’t dare relax, knowing that Bulstrode and parkinson hadn’t really bought her story of being cornered by older students and that they were watching her like hawks.

Shortly after the bruises had faded completely, Hermione found a window seat. It was a Sunday, and most everyone was staying inside their common rooms or the library, but Hermione wanted to be alone. If Lockhart couldn’t find her, he couldn’t take her to his office.

She was staring out at the rain lashing the window, silently reciting the steps to make a Swelling Solution, when something in the reflection of the window caught her eye. Before she could turn around, she found herself unable to move, and after a moment, her vision went black.

A blink later, she was staring up at a white ceiling. Feeling strangely stiff and groggy, she reached up to rub her eyes.

“Awake, then?” Madam Pomfrey said, bustling over. That answered that - she was in the hospital wing.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You were Petrified,” Pomfrey explained.

“Oh.” Hermione blinked. “What did it?”

“A basilisk. It’s dead now, don’t you worry.” Pomfrey handed her a potion bottle. “Drink this, and you’ll have to stay overnight to make sure there are no aftereffects. Exams have been cancelled, so don’t even think of studying.”

Hermione drank without question. Almost before the bottle was empty, she slumped back onto the bed, sound asleep. She didn’t wake until Pomfrey’s alarm went off the next morning. After fussing over her, the matron let her go off into the main castle for breakfast.

Hermione was _starving._ She took twice as much as she usually ate.

Parkinson and Bulstrode plopped down across from her. “Out of the infirmary, then?” Parkinson asked.

Hermione nodded, swallowing her potatoes.

“Did you hear about Lockhart?” Bulstrode asked. Hermione shook her head. “In Mungo’s. He’s lost his memory.”

Vicious satisfaction, followed quickly by rage, swelled in her. It was good that _some_ karmic force had punished him, but even so, why should _he_ get to forget everything he did to her when she had to remember it?

“No exams,” Parkinson said. “No Defense. This basilisk thing worked out well!”

Right. That was why she stayed away from them. Every bit of niceness held a pearl of cruelty.

Snape interrupted them. “Granger,” he said coldly. “You will need to choose subjects for next term. See me after breakfast.”

Hermione ate in silence, only half-listening to her year-mates describing the classes. Parkinson and Bulstrode had both had chosen Care of Magical Creatures and Divination. Hermione immediately decided against either of those, solely to keep from spending more time around them than she had to. After hearing Snape’s explanations of the classes, she ended up choosing Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Snape told her that she was the only Slytherin third-year in either class.

“And your marks have been abysmal this year,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Do try to do better next year, or you’ll spend every weekend with me.”

That threat made her wince. If Lockhart was cruel, what would Snape be like?

Term ended three weeks later. Hermione spent that time catching up in all her subjects. The others who had been Petrified joined her, so at least she wasn’t going to tutoring - _actual_ tutoring, now - alone. She hated being alone with people.

She did, however, love to be alone by herself, and so she found an empty carriage on the Hogwarts Express and stayed there for the entire ride back to London.


	7. New Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploding heads and dementors. Hermione's third year gets off to a very interesting start.

Hermione had barely settled back into Muggle life before her mother drove her back to ‘work’. Now nearly fourteen years old, this was her fourth year as a whore.

“You won’t be going back to where you were,” her mother said, not looking at her. “That’s for the younger kids. Your age, there’s a different place for you. You’ll be working twelves now, six to six.”

The building they approached looked very like the one where Hermione had been going for years. The biggest difference was that her mother didn’t come in with her, just watched to make sure she entered. A man in a white plastic mask, so similar to those the workers at the other place wore, led her into a large room. Other girls, already naked, stood around. Hermione was the youngest one there.

The man left. A girl who was only a year or two older than Hermione approached her. “Hey, new girl, I’m Laura,” she said.

“Dorcas.” It was the fake name she’d been using since she’d begun working.

“Good to meet you, Dorcas. You need anything, let me know. Bathroom’s through there.” Laura raised her arm to point, and Hermione saw long, thin scars on her arm.

“What happened?” she asked, nodding at them.

Laura sighed. “It makes life easier for me to deal with,” she said. “But the people who want cutters are cruel. Don’t start.”

“You did it to yourself?” she asked, horrified but somehow transfixed.

Laura shrugged. “Don’t like to talk about it,” she muttered.

“Comin’ in!” a man barked.

“They’re here,” Laura said. “C’mon, Dorcas. I’ll show you the ropes.”  
***  
Once more, Hermione got into a nocturnal schedule. She did what she was told when she was told. She made it through the summer without incident - right up until 29 August, her final day of work before she returned to Hogwarts. 

The clock had just struck one o’clock in the morning of the thirtieth. Hermione was on her hands and knees between a man and a woman, both masked. The door burst open and armed adults burst in, shouting “Freeze!”

Hermione froze. The man behind her didn’t; he grabbed her by the neck and lifted her to her feet, turning them in the same motion, so Hermione stood as a shield between the police and her client. She saw girls running and crawling to get close to each other and away from the adults.

“Let her go,” a policewoman ordered.

The arm around her throat tightened, pulling her onto her toes. “We’re going to walk out of here.”

“We can’t let you do that.”

“Watch me.” He started walking backward, dragging Hermione with him.

“Dorcas,” Laura called, fear in her voice. Hermione shot her a look, seeing her and the other girls huddled together. The masked adults stood where they’d been before the police came, but the girls had gotten together faster than Hermione had thought possible.

“We can’t let you leave,” the policewoman repeated. Her gun was trained on them. Hermione saw, with a jolt of fear, that all of the police guns followed suit. Police didn’t _have_ guns, not without special permission, and if they’d gotten special permission to come here and they were ready to shoot….

The man jerked Hermione back, disrupting her train of thought before she could finish it. He ignored the policewoman, still retreating towards the back door. Hermione stumbled, trying to keep his arm from choking her. His forearm yanked her chin up sharply and she scrambled to get back on her toes.

The police advanced with him. “Let the girl go,” the woman advised.

The man holding her laughed, semi-hysterical. “So you can shoot me? No, thank you.”

The woman carefully put her gun in her belt holster. “No one is shooting you, but you have. To let. Her go.”

The man lunged back. The guns of the other officers moves with him. He laughed again. “Yeah. No one shooting. Right.”

“This is your last chance to let her go.”

“Fuck you.”

The woman’s gaze shifted to something behind them. She nodded. The man’s head exploded.

Later, Hermione would remember the bang that came before. She’d remember feeling the blood and - other things - spatter all over her. She’d remember the woman starting to move forward.

But right now, all she knew was that she had to get out of there, so she turned and ran all the way home.

Her parents were asleep when she got home. She snuck in through her bedroom window and showered quickly, knowing her parents were sound sleepers and wouldn’t wake for the shower. Then she dressed in the most comfortable fleece she owned, not needing the warmth so much as the comfort, and fell into bed, curling on her side and shaking through the long night.  
***  
The raid of a “paedophilic child trafficking ring” made the front page of the news that morning, so her parents didn't question why she hadn’t stayed for her full “shift”, just hugged her and said they were glad she was all right. They even signed the permission slip for her to go into Hogsmeade, Britain's only all-wizarding village. Hermione tried to sleep, really she did, but she kept jerking awake from nightmares of the exploding head.

She was exhausted by the time she got onto the train. It was all she could do to pull her trunk into the first empty compartment she found. She didn’t have the energy to lift it into the storage bin, so she left it on the floor and fell into the seat, asleep before the train started moving.

She woke from the same nightmare, but this time, the feeling didn’t go away when she woke up. If anything, the panic was worse, tinged with despair. A black-robed - thing - was in the door to her compartment. It turned to face her, and it was like she was back there, feeling the bone and brain hit her face.

A man was dead, and it was her fault.  
***  
Remus Lupin left the carriage holding his best friend’s son, who was still recovering from the dementor’s appearance. He needed to talk to the driver about how long it would be before they made it to Hogwarts, and he needed to send an owl ahead for Harry. He glanced into the compartments he passed to see if anyone else was so affected. Some of the students were crying. Some were hugging. Most looked shell-shocked.

One carriage seemed empty at first glance, but something made him stop and look closer - empty carriages shouldn’t really exist on the Hogwarts Express. There were too many students in too small a space for empty carriages.

There was a girl lying on the floor. Remus opened the door and dropped to the carpet beside her, reaching to find a pulse. If a dementor had taken her soul, she’d only have about fifteen beats a minute.

Her pulse was elevated, and Remus actually sighed in relief. He pulled out his wand and muttered “Aguamenti minimi,” conjuring a mist at the tip of his wand. He moved her hair out of the way and directed the spray towards her face.

She muttered and stirred. Remus cancelled the mist and instead touched her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

She groaned. “Not again.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dorcas,” she mumbled.

“Dorcas what?”

She finally opened her eyes and slurred out, “Do I know you?”

“I’m Remus Lupin, your Defense professor.”

“Defense…? Oh. Right. Hogwarts.”

“How are you feeling?”

She sat up. “‘M okay.”

She was swaying. He steadied her. “Come on - you shouldn’t be alone.”

She sighed and got to her knees, and then, with his assistance, to her feet. He led her back to the compartment with Harry and the Weasleys.

“Sit,” he said, pushing her down onto a seat. “And - Ginny, can you give her some chocolate? Thanks. I need to speak with the driver.”

Ginny handed her a slab of chocolate with shaking hands as Lupin disappeared. “Here, Granger.”

Hermione took it. “Thanks.” She leaned back and rested her head against the wall.

“So what happened to you?” Ron asked. “I mean, why did the dementors….?”

Hermione opened her eyes and scowled at him. “I’m a Mudblood in Slytherin.” She wasn't about to discuss the exploding head, or how she’d gotten in that situation to begin with.

“Oh,” Ron said weakly.

The door opened. Lupin came back inside. A smile flickered over his face. “I haven’t poisoned that chocolate, you know.”

Hermione took a bite. To her surprise, warmth spread through her limbs, chasing away the bone-deep chill. From the look on Potter’s face, he was feeling the same.

“We should be arriving in about 30 minutes,” Lupin said. “Dorcas, you may want to change.”

Ginny frowned. “Who’s Dorcas?”

“It’s my middle name,” Hermione lied. “I get called that at home.” She tried to stand, but her legs felt like overcooked noodles and went out from under her.

“Just rest awhile, then,” Lupin said.

Hermione nodded wearily and closed her eyes again. Across from her, Potter did the same. The rest of the trip was made in silence while Hermione dozed.

The train screeched to a halt at Hogsmeade Station. Hermione once again made the effort to stand, and this time her legs supported her. Lupin stuck close by as they walked to the horseless carriages.

Except this time, they weren’t horseless. Hermione stopped dead and stared at a ghoulish mockery of a horse. “What is that - thing?” she asked, voice squeaking.

“What thing?” Lupin asked.

“The - thing! Pulling the carriages!” As she spoke, the creature shook out its batlike wings.

“It’s a thestral.” Lupin sounded sad. “The only people who can see them are people who have seen death. They’ve been pulling the carriages for years.”

“Oh.” Hermione couldn’t think of anything else to say. She climbed inside. Lupin followed her, and they rode to the castle in silence.

Hermione tensed when they pulled to a stop and she heard a familiar, sneering voice. “Is it true you fainted on the train, Potter? You actually fainted?”

“Is there a problem?” Lupin asked, smoothly disembarking in the same moment.

Malfoy’s reply was lost to the rushing of her ears when she stood up. When her vision cleared, she left the carriage, clumsy and tired. Lupin caught her and smiled reassuringly when she half-tripped on the last step.

“Granger!” someone barked as soon as she stepped foot in the Entrance Hall. “A moment!”

Hermione looked to see Professor McGonagall beckoning her over, looking cross. “Thanks, Professor,” she said to Lupin.

“Of course. I’ll see you in class.”

Hermione trotted over to McGonagall. Potter was already there, looking glum.

“No need to look so worried, I just want a word,” McGonagall said briskly. “Up to my office, then - ah, Severus, good.”

Snape looked at Hermione, expression without some of its usual disdain. He avoided even looking at Potter all the way up to McGonagall’s office. When they reached it, McGonagall gestured to them to sit in the chairs before her desk. She herself sat behind it; Snape stood by her shoulder, a menacing presence.

“Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead,” McGonagall said after they’d sat. “He said you were taken ill on the train?”

They didn’t have time to answer before the door opened and Pomfrey bustled in.

Potter turned bright red. “I’m fine,” he said quickly.

Snape scoffed. Pomfrey’s eyes narrowed. “It’s you, is it? And you?” she asked Hermione. Hermione just nodded. Pomfrey’s attention turned to Potter. “I suppose you were doing something dangerous again?”

“It was the dementors, Poppy,” McGonagall said.

Pomfrey scowled and put a hand on Potter’s forehead. “Setting dementors around a school….They won’t be the last ones who collapse. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they have on people who are already delicate-”

“I’m not delicate,” Potter said indignantly.

Pomfrey took his pulse. “Of course you’re not, dear.”

Potter lapsed into sulking silence. Hermione submitted meekly to Pomfrey’s cursory exam; when she was done, McGonagall asked, “What do they need? Should they perhaps spend tonight in the hospital wing?”

“No!” Potter half-shouted. “I feel fine, really!”

If he felt half as bad as Hermione did, that was a flat-out lie.

“They should have some chocolate, at the very least,” Pomfrey said.

“We’ve already had some,” Potter said. “Professor Lupin gave us some on the train.”

“Did he now?” Pomfrey asked. “So we’ve finally got a Defense professor who knows his remedies?”

“Are you both quite sure you feel all right?” McGonagall asked.

“Yes,” Potter said, exasperated. Hermione just nodded.

“Well, then,” McGonagall said, getting up. “I suppose we should go down to the feast.”

“A moment with you, Miss Granger,” Snape said. 

“You can stay here,” McGonagall said. “Come along, Potter.”

The three of them left. To her great surprise, Snape turned the chair Potter had vacated to face her and sat.

“Miss Granger,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to enlighten me why the dementor affected you so?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, not meeting his eyes.

Snape reached into his robes and pulled out a square of paper. “Would it, perhaps, have to do with this?”

Hermione looked at it, a bit reluctantly. She felt the blood drain from her face when she saw the headline: _Paedophile Ring Busted!_

“What makes you think that?” she asked, sounding unconvincing to her own ears.

Snape flipped the paper back around and read, “Authorities are still seeking a young girl named Dorcas. Witnesses say she is around thirteen, with bushy brown hair and brown eyes. She disappeared after being held hostage.” He looked back at her, black eyes unfathomable. “In his owl, Lupin said you told him your name was Dorcas. This was in your hometown. The girl lost the police, which should not have happened - _could_ not have happened unless she was a witch. The dementor affected you badly enough that you lost consciousness.”

Hermione tried for flip. “So?”

“Miss Granger, do not play games with me.” Snape didn’t sound as irritated as she would have thought, more tired than anything.

Hermione hunched in on herself. “What does it matter if it was me? It’s over. They’re in jail.”

Snape rubbed his eyes. “I believe you’ll find that vile people exist in far greater quantities than you’ve imagined.”

They sat in silence. Hermione’s mind whirled. Could Snape be right? Could there be more?

“I need you to be honest with me,” Snape said finally. “Can you do that?”

Hermione nodded.

“Do your parents know?”

She couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. Snape already knew, she’d as good as admitted it; in for a Knut, in for a Galleon. “They’re the ones who signed me up for it.”

Snape stiffened. “And when was this?”

There was a dangerous edge to his voice. Hermione leaned away from him and said carefully, “A year before I came here?”

Snape closed his eyes. “Why did you not tell anyone?”

“I don’t want to be taken away from them,” she said.

“For Merlin’s sake, why not?” Snape snapped, eyes flying open.

“Well - er - people die in the system….”

“They were prostituting you,” Snape said.

“At least I’m still alive.”

He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Granger, I assure you, we would not have allowed any harm to come to you.”

“Why not? Lockhart did,” she said bitterly.

Snape frowned more deeply. “By which you mean…?”

“He was a client. For years. When he got here, he saw me, and...anyway.” She shivered. “It’s not like he didn’t pay me, so I can’t complain.”

Snape clenched his fists. “You had tutoring with him all last year.”

“Three times a week. Sometimes on Saturdays. Parkinson and Bulstrode saw the bruises, once. I told them some older students had attacked me.”

“And your marks last year….Merlin, Granger, you should have told someone.”

“And have it get out that I’m a whore?” she asked sharply.

Snape reeled back like he’d been slapped, then leaned forward, eyes intense. “Do not _ever_ call yourself that again. Understand?”

Hermione blinked at him. “But I am. I have sex for money.”

Snape blew out a breath. “You don’t - tell me something, Granger. If they hadn’t paid you, would you have had sex with them?”

“No,” she said like it was obvious.

“Then it doesn’t matter if they paid you. What they did was rape.”

Hermione blinked at him. “But - they paid me, so I had to have sex with them.” Was he missing that part?

“No, Hermione.” Snape’s face was deadly serious. “You do _not_ have to have sex with somebody just because they offer you money to do so.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” she argued. “Money for a service.”

“Even prostitutes turn down clients. You can _always_ say no.”

Something in Hermione broke. “That’s easy for you to say! You’re an adult, and a wizard, and big, and - and a _man!_ I’m a stupid little girl! It’s different!”

Snape stared at her. “You are not stupid,” he said, voice low. “As for the rest - I was not always big, or a wizard, or an adult. You _always_ have the _right_ to say no.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair. She was exhausted again. “Can I go now?”

Snape sighed. “I suppose we should get down to the Feast,” he said reluctantly. “But this is not the last we’ll talk about it.”


	8. Welcome to Another Year!

Hermione went to breakfast with the other third-year girls. Snape spied them come in and came down from the Head Table to hand the third-year schedules to Hermione.

Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and Zabini wandered in a few minutes later. Parkinson passed them the remaining schedules. Malfoy took them from her, found his, and handed the rest to Nott.

“Did you hear about Potter?” Malfoy asked. “Fainted on the train.”

“We know,” Bulstrode said. “You’ve only said it about fifty times.”

“I wonder how it went,” Malfoy went on, apparently ignoring her. “Oh, here he comes!” He struck an affected pose, hand on his forehead, and swooned. Hermione had to laugh at how ridiculous he was being.

“Hey Potter!” Parkinson yelled. “The big scary dementors are coming, Potter!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and sat down, serving herself toast and scrambled eggs. A note sparkled into existence next to her plate:

_Miss Granger,_  
Please come to my office at seven o’clock tonight. The password is Cockroach Clusters.  
Albus Dumbledore 

She crumpled it up and shoved it in her bag before the others could see. There wasn’t much danger of that, focused as they were on mocking Potter, but still. Better safe than sorry.

Her first class after breakfast was Transfiguration, so she trooped up to the third floor with the other third-year Slytherins, and then followed them to Charms. After lunch was Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. None of her teachers treated her any differently, for which she was grateful. She hadn’t been sure what would happen now that Snape knew.

After dinner, she said she was going to the library, but instead wandered up to the third floor. Dumbledore's office was somewhere around here….

“Cockroach Clusters,” she yelled to the hallway just off the Grand Staircase, and to her surprise, it worked: a stone gargoyle halfway down the corridor leapt to the side. She hurried forward and stepped onto the revolving staircase before it could shut again.

The stairs dropped her off at a door. She knocked, and a man’s voice called, “Come in.”

She entered a circular room with bookshelves towering far above her. A phoenix perched beside Dumbledore’s desk, in front of which were three comfortable-looking chairs. Silver mechanisms sat on wooden tables that dotted the room, and old portraits lined the walls where bookshelves weren’t.

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said. “Have a seat. Lemon drop?”

“No, thank you,” she said, settling herself on the edge of a chair. Sweets were bad for the teeth.

“How are you doing?”

“Well, thanks, and you?” It was an automatic response.

Dumbledore knew it, too, judging by the twinkle in his eye. “I am doing wonderfully. Now-”

A sharp knock interrupted him. Hermione turned to see Snape and McGonagall enter.

“Severus, Minerva, please. Have a seat. Lemon drop?”

“No, thank you, Headmaster,” McGonagall said, crossing briskly to sit in a chair next to Hermione. Snape didn’t bother to answer, just sat in the third chair.

“Well, then, shall we get to business?” Dumbledore asked brightly. “Miss Granger, Severus, I’m sure you both know why you’re here. Minerva, I’ve asked you to come as the Deputy Headmistress.”

McGonagall nodded, a speculative look on her face.

“Also, Miss Granger, I thought you may be more comfortable talking to a woman than to either Severus or myself.” Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “So, then, let’s begin. Miss Granger, Severus has come to me with a rather disturbing tale. I would like to hear it from you, if you please.”

Hermione swallowed and looked down. Her shoes were scuffed. “Do I have to?”

“I’m afraid I must insist.” Dumbledore sounded coaxing, even kind.

“Why?” she asked plaintively.

“If what Severus has said is true, we can help you. But you need to tell us, so that we can.”

Hermione swallowed. Snape already knew. He’d told Dumbledore. McGonagall was strict, but nice enough, and none of them had given her any reason to fear them.

So why did she want to be sick just thinking of talking about it?

“Granger,” Snape said, drawing her eyes. “If you want it to stop, you have to talk.”

She swallowed again. “I - where do I start?”

“When was the first time?” Dumbledore asked.

She looked back at her shoes. “For money, or…?”

“Ever.”

“I don’t know,” she said, hating the waver in her voice. “I was - I was little, six or seven. Mum and Dad would tell me it made them feel good, so I did what they told me to do.”

“And for money?”

“When I was ten, they told me they’d found me a job. This summer, when I went home, I went somewhere new. We were all teenagers, there.”

The questions went on, and Hermione fell into a kind of tired, distanced state where she answered without letting herself think. She knew the trance from work, but this was the first time she fell into it while just talking. She even managed to describe the exploding head without seeing it in her mind’s eye.

They wrapped up eventually. Snape escorted a still-numb Hermione back to the Slytherin common room. She fell back onto her bed after showering. She was so tired she expected to fall asleep immediately, but instead, she lie awake long into the night, not thinking at all.


	9. Chapter 9

When Hermione woke the next morning, she had a brief moment where she stayed under the covers, pleasantly warm and sleepy. Then reality crashed back in, waking her fully and souring her mood.

They knew. All of them. By now Dumbledore would have told all the staff, and everyone would know, and she’d be seen for the whore she was. How many of her teachers would want her services now? How many would expect them? It would get around the school, of that she was sure; how many students would take advantage of her newfound status as a whore?

Running water broke into her thoughts, and she realized she could hear the other girls gossiping in the bathroom. She rolled out of bed and dressed quickly, hiding the fading bruises under layers of cotton and nylon.

She ate mechanically, not daring to look up at the teachers. Students chattered around her, but she ignored them. Only when it was time for class did she look around. The teachers didn't seem to be paying any more attention to her than normal. Slightly mollified, she followed the others to the Defense classroom.

Lupin slid into the classroom just before class started. Everyone already had their parchment and quills out, assuming Lupin would be lecturing - an assumption proved false when he beamed at them and said, “Put your things away and follow me, all you'll need today is your wand. We’re doing a practical lesson!”

They looked uncertainly at each other before doing as they were told. When they'd packed up, Lupin said brightly, “Follow me then!”

He led them to a room on the third floor. “We’re doing boggarts today,” he announced. “I was lucky enough to find this fellow lurking around in the attic. First off, who knows what a boggart is?”

This had been in the reading, but damned if Hermione could remember the answer. From the shuffling of feet around her, she was pretty sure everyone else was in the same boat. Or maybe they just hadn’t done the reading at all.

“Anyone?” Lupin prompted after a full minute of silence.

Daphne Greengrass raised her hand. “It takes the form of your darkest fear.”

“Good job, five points to Slytherin. We have an advantage here, has anyone spotted it?”

More silence, before Parkinson half-raised her hand. Not waiting to be called on, she said, “There are too many of us.”

“Good, another five points. The boggart will get confused. I was once in the room with someone afraid of slugs and someone afraid of beheadings, and the boggart became half a slug. Not frightening in the least.

“Our numbers may be an advantage, but they won't defeat the boggart on their own. No, to beat a boggart, you need laughter. You need to make your fear into something funny. I would like you all to take a moment to consider your biggest fear, and how to defeat it. Then you’ll take turns facing the boggart. The incantation to force the boggart to change forms is _Riddikulus._ ”

He stopped speaking, and they fell into thoughtful silence. Hermione’s biggest fear was easy: the exploding head. Confetti, maybe, instead of blood and gore?

She came to that decision around the same time her fellow Slytherins made theirs. Lupin asked, “Who would like to go first?” When they remained silent, he said, “Anyone?”, then glanced at the roster and said, “Millicent, why don’t you start?”

She stepped forward, looking like she dearly wished to be anywhere else.

“Ready?” Lupin asked kindly, and at her nod, he flicked his wand and opened the wardrobe. A banshee swooped out.

“Riddikulus,” she squeaked, and the banshee was suddenly dressed as a clown.

“Vincent,” Lupin said.

Crabbe stepped forward, wand raised. “Riddikulus!”

The clown became a jack-in-the-box. Goyle went next, and his spider became a balloon.

“Hermione,” Lupin called, and she swallowed as she traded places with Crabbe. The toy morphed into a naked, masked man she knew well: Lockhart. “Riddikulus,” she said hastily.

His head exploded and reformed into a woman’s shape. Lockhart shortened, grew chubbier, and switched out golden hair for brown. In the space of a breath, she was looking at her masked parents. “Riddikulus,” she tried again, this time forcing her mind to think of nothing but confetti. When they exploded like pinatas, she forced out a laugh and traded places with Malfoy. The boggart whirled into a man in light green robes with a crossed wand and bone stitched into the breast.

When they were released, Hermione nearly ran to Transfiguration, not wanting to get trapped into answering their questions. She was sure there would be some; unlike spiders or healers, naked adults were not a common fear. She slid into a desk in the very back corner and waved a charm at the seat beside her to keep anyone from wanting to sit there. They probably wouldn’t, but still - no use taking chances.

McGonagall raised her brow at Hermione sitting in the back, but didn’t comment, for which she was grateful. The rest of her year trickled in a few minutes later, prompting McGonagall to start class.

At lunch, a note sparkled into existence next to her plate: _Hospital wing, 8 o’clock tonight. S. Snape._

She crumpled it in her hand before anyone else could see it and looked at the Head Table. She caught Snape’s eye and nodded minutely. He nodded back, just as small a movement, and she left for Ancient Runes, no longer hungry.

She skipped dinner, too nervous to eat. Instead, she spent the time in the library, idly flipping through Charms books and noting spells that seemed good to know. When the clock tower chimed the half hour, she reshelved the books and wandered to the hospital wing.

Snape and McGonagall were waiting for her. McGonagall opened the door and gestured her in.

Pomfrey bustled out of her office. “Hello, Miss Granger. Has anyone explained why you’re here?”

“I can guess,” she said, pulling bravado over herself like a shield.

Pomfrey smiled sadly. “Yes, I suppose you can. This won’t hurt, dear. If you would?” She pointed to a bed. “Shoes off and sit down.”

Hermione toed off her flats and sat as directed, catching sight of an interested-looking Malfoy as she did. Pomfrey pulled the curtains, blocking the rest of the room from view, and conjured a chair so she could sit facing Hermione.

“They can’t hear us, either,” Pomfrey said. “Everything you tell me is confidential. I will have to share any results with them and Professor Dumbledore, but anything you say stays between us. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“I’m going to start with a basic diagnostic spell, just to make sure you’re not sick. Is that okay?”

Hermione shrugged, knowing she didn't have much of a choice. Pomfrey tapped her on the top of her head. Sparkles like sequins swirled lazily around her before forming into words Hermione was at the wrong angle to read.

“Have you been tired lately?” Pomfrey asked. “More than normal?”

“Yeah. But I haven’t been sleeping well,” she added hurriedly.

Pomfrey nodded. “Any pains?”

“No,” Hermione said. “Well, not usually.”

“What about when it does? What hurts?”

Hermione pointed, feeling herself blush.

“Your abdomen? What kind of pain is it?”

“What?”

“Does it ache, stab, throb…?”

“It feels like lightning.”

Madam Pomfrey cast another spell. “It seems you have a bit of scarring on your clitoral hood,” she said. “That would do it.”

“My what?”

“Clitoral hood,” Pomfrey said patiently. “The little flap just above the clitoris.”

“Right. And it's scarred?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s fixable, but you’ll have to stay overnight.” Pomfrey seemed to hesitate, then said, “You also have a sexually-transmitted disease. That will take a bit longer to cure, I’m afraid.”

Hermione swallowed. “What disease?”

“Havengrott. I think the Muggles call it syphilis. It’s a bit nasty - attacks your brain. But not to worry,” she added hastily, “it’s completely treatable. In a month you won’t even remember it.”

“Because of brain damage?” Hermione asked weakly.

“Oh, no! No. Because you’ll be well, of course. I don’t see anything else physically wrong, but is there anything else? Pain, or discomfort, or anything you want to tell me?”

Hermione shook her head.

“All right, then. Go ahead and change” - she conjured a set of pajamas for her - “and get into bed. I just need to talk to the professors, and then I’ll be back to work on that scarring.”

Hermione changed quickly. A few minutes later, she heard Pomfrey call, “Are you decent?”

“Yes,” she answered.

Pomfrey opened the curtains and inclined her head toward the three teachers behind her - Dumbledore had joined them at some point. “They need a word before I start to work.”

Dumbledore waved two more chairs into existence. He sat down in one, but the other two remained standing. Pomfrey bustled off to check on Malfoy, who was still looking rather interested in the whole proceeding.

“I’m sure this has been a very long day,” Dumbledore said, “so I shall come straight to the point. We cannot allow you to return to your parents, and while we can make efforts to place you with a wizarding family, it would take a very good argument for the Wizengamot to agree to the placement. Your parents being Muggles makes things more complicated; I’m sure I do not need to tell you how much of an uproar there will be if wizards get wind that a magical child was abused by Muggle parents.” Hermione shuddered at the thought - she knew how most wizards viewed Muggles. “Placing you without the Wizengamot knowing comes with its own - er - drawbacks, not the least of which being the danger that they find out on their own. Which would you prefer?”

Hermione barely had to think. “I don't want anyone to know.”

“That settles that, then,” Dumbledore said brightly. “We shall leave you in the very capable hands of Madam Pomfrey.”


	10. Stop Being a Prat

True to her word, Pomfrey fixed her up. Hermione had to take some nasty potions over the following fortnight, but she was eventually declared disease-free. In all that time, none of the teachers talked to her about the summer, though McGonagall gave her pitying looks when she thought Hermione couldn't see. She was lucky Malfoy was making such a fuss about his (quickly-healed) arm: it distracted the other Slytherins from asking about why her boggart was naked adults.

The very first class after Malfoy was released from the hospital wing was Potions. Hermione was unlucky enough to have to pair with him. Potter and Ron Weasley were on the other side of the table. For the first part of class, all four were content to ignore each other, but when they started brewing it was another story altogether.

“Professor,” Malfoy drawled, “I can’t skin my shrivelfig.”

“Potter,” Snape said, “skin his shrivelfig for him.”

“I can’t chop my roots, either.”

“Weasley, chop his roots for him.”

Looking murderous, the Gryffindors grabbed the ingredients and got to work, not being careful in the slightest.

“Professor,” Malfoy said, “Weasley’s mutilating my roots, sir.”

“Switch roots with Malfoy, Weasley,” Snape said without looking up.

Ron’s jaw dropped. “But-”

“You heard him,” Malfoy said, grabbing the beautifully-cut roots and leaving Ron with the messy ones.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Stop being a prat,” she muttered to Malfoy. “We’ve got the rest of the year with them.”

“Should’ve figured a Mudblood would stand up for a blood traitor.”

“Don’t call her that,” Ron snarled, forgetting to keep his voice down.

“Weasley, five points from Gryffindor,” Snape said.

“But sir! He called her a-”

“Drop it,” Hermione said. “Imaginative insults are for people who aren't inbred.”

“Watch yourself, Granger,” Malfoy said.

“I’m not afraid of you, you puffed-up little-”

“No talking,” Snape interrupted.

Hermione rolled her eyes and shoved some of her roots to Weasley. “Have some extra,” she muttered to him.

“Thanks,” he breathed.

That incident didn't endear her to Malfoy, but he was never going to like her anyway. Better to have as few enemies as possible, and if that meant getting on Potter’s and Weasley’s good sides, she could deal with that. Especially if she could irritate smarmy little blood-purists like Malfoy at the same time.

She regretted it when he started hexing her, but by then, it was too late to do anything about it. Besides, she’d lived through worse, as her nightmares kept reminding her. Over the next weeks, she tried everything she could think of to stop the nightmares coming - meditating, avoiding sugar, thinking happy thoughts while she fell asleep, casting a white-noise charm inside the Silencing Spell around her bed. Nothing worked. She learned to live in a state of exhaustion as the bags under her eyes grew more developed.

Finally, it was Halloween, and they had their first Hogsmeade trip. The third-year Slytherins talked excitedly over breakfast about Britain’s only all-wizarding village, making plans on where to go first. Hermione listened in, plotting silently on how to avoid them. Just because she could deal with being hexed didn’t mean she wanted to spend the day fixing her eyebrows growing so much they obscured her vision.

Filch was checking permission slips at the door. Hermione handed him hers, and he scowled down at it as he waved her through. The outside air was damp and smelled of earth. She drank it in as she started down the lawn.

Hogsmeade was quite a bit further than she’d thought it would be, and she realized she’d never walked the trail before - she’d always taken the carriages. It was nearly half an hour later that she came over a rise and saw the village.

She skipped Honeydukes; after Lockhart’s lollipops, she really didn’t like sweets. Instead she wandered down High Street, noting Scrivenshaft’s Stationery, the Three Broomsticks pub, the Hog’s Head pub, Finn’s Frippery, a robe shop, and countless other stores needed to support the population. None of them caught her eye - there was nothing she really needed, and besides, she didn’t have much in the way of pocket money - so when she reached the end of the street she walked on, following the dirt path out of town. It wound back and forth between hills and then ended abruptly at a dilapidated little fenced-in house. It must be the Shrieking Shack - she’d heard some of the others talking about it at breakfast. The most haunted building in all Britain, they’d called it. It didn’t look anything special to her.

She turned her back and returned to Hogwarts, disappointed beyond belief that Hogsmeade was just another little town with even less to offer than Diagon Alley.

The Halloween Feast made up for the disappointment of Hogsmeade, at least a bit, and even better, she got through the entire meal without Malfoy subtly cursing her. She was in a much better mood when her house made its way back to the common room en masse.

No sooner had she settled onto her bed, blotter and Charms book before her to work on Flitwick’s essay, than a prefect stuck her head in the door. “Come on,” she said.

“What?” Hermione asked blankly.

The prefect rolled her eyes. “Up to the Great Hall,” she said impatiently. “We’ve been called back, get a move on!”

Hermione scowled, capped her inkwell, and followed the prefect out the door. There was a panicked, jostling crowd in the Great Hall. Dumbledore was busy waving the tables out of the way and conjuring squashy purple sleeping bags on the floor. He said something to the eldest Weasley - or at least, the eldest one still in school - and swept out the door.

“No talking,” Weasley cried, puffing out his chest so his Head Boy badge glinted in the moonlight. “Into bed, now, lights out in ten minutes.”

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked a passing Hufflepuff.

“Sirius Black broke in,” he said, eyes wide with wonder. “I bet he can turn invisible.”

“Maybe he Apparated in,” another Hufflepuff said.

“You can’t Apparate in Hogwarts,” the first Hufflepuff said scornfully, and they wandered away, bickering. Hermione sighed, grabbed a sleeping bag, and dragged it over against a wall. She’d find out what had _really_ happened in the morning.

Apparently, the Hufflepuff boy had been right: Sirius Black had broken in. Comparing snippets of overheard rumors, Hermione managed to piece together that he’d attacked the entrance to Gryffindor, which was called the Fat Lady for some reason. The more outlandish things she overheard - that Black could become a bat, that he’d come in via a flying pumpkin, that he knew ways into the school that even Dumbledore didn’t - she ignored. 

By the end of the next weekend, the rumor mill had moved on. The Gryffindor/Hufflepuff Quidditch match had ended when dementors swarmed the field, knocking Potter unconscious just after the Hufflepuff seeker had caught the snitch. Potter’s broom had apparently been blown off into the Whomping Willow, a rather ill-tempered tree on the south lawn, and been subsequently destroyed. Gossips talked incessantly about why Potter fainted. 

October faded into November, and then into December. Hermione let herself get lost in the haze of schoolwork and forcing herself to read into exhaustion, the best way she’d found to curb the nightmares. When her textbooks gained a learned-by-heart dullness, she checked books out from the library and spent her time learning spells not taught in the standard curriculum. One told of the Patronus Charm, good for repelling dementors and other quasi-demonic creatures, and she spent nearly two weeks trying to conjure a Patronus before giving up and moving on to transfiguring the floor into a sheet of ice.

Almost before she knew it, Snape came around with a list of people who would be staying at Hogwarts over Christmas. Hermione and a first-year boy were the only two who chose to stay.

On the last day of Charms before break, Hermione hung back. 

“Something I can help you with, Miss Granger?” Flitwick asked.

“Er - yes, actually. I was wondering if you could help me with the Patronus Charm?”

Flitwick eyed her keenly. “Have you tried it before?”

“Yeah. I can’t get it to work.”

“Have you tried focusing on a different memory?”

“I’ve tried everything I can think of.”

“Can you show me?”

Hermione drew her wand. Focusing on a trip to the movies she’d taken with her aunt when she’d stayed with her years before, she muttered, “ _Expecto Patronum._ ”

Nothing happened.

“Hmm,” Flitwick said. "You’re not doing anything technically wrong. I do believe you just need a better memory.” When her face fell, he added, “I believe Professor Lupin will be working on the Patronus with Harry Potter. Why don’t you ask to join him?”

“All right,” Hermione said. “Thanks, Professor.”

When Hermione asked Lupin, he frowned. “Will you have a problem with Harry?”

“No. Why would I?”

He nodded at her tie.“You are Slytherin.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m also a Mudbl-”

“Do not finish that word,” Lupin interrupted.

“Muggle-born, then. I’ve no issue with him.”

“I’ll let you know after break, then. I’m afraid I’m still feeling a bit ill.”

Hermione nodded, remembering that some of his classes had been covered by Snape the week before - and then she froze.

“Problem?” he asked lightly.

“Last week was the full moon,” she said slowly.

“Yes?”

“You were sick at the last full moon, too.”

His face tightened. “Yes?”

She swallowed. “Are you a- a werewolf?”

“If I was, would I be allowed to teach?” he asked smartly.

She thought on that. “The Wolfsbane potion. Snape could brew it, and you'd be fine.”

“He could.”

“So you are, then. A werewolf.”

“Who better to teach you Defense?” He hesitated. “Though if you wouldn’t mind keeping it to yourself…?”

“Course,” she said automatically. She really didn’t have anyone to tell, and even if she did, she wouldn't tell a secret like that. “Feel better soon, sir,” she added, and left for Transfiguration.

The next day, Hermione slept late, and when she woke, the dormitory was empty around her. Break had begun.

She spent her first day working on the homework she’d been given. At lunch she found that only five students had stayed, Potter and Ron Weasley among them. A Ravenclaw had her nose firmly in a book while she ate. The last was a first-year Slytherin - Darren? - who sniffled his way through the meal.

The second day she spent in the library, still looking for useful spells. She found one that would let her send messages via misty carrier pigeon and had it perfected by dinner. Also by dinner she’d begun sniffling - Darren had clearly given her his cold. She considered going to Pomfrey and dismissed the thought almost before it had formed. She’d had colds before. She’d be fine.

None of her year-mates sent her Christmas gifts. She hadn’t gotten anything for them, either.

At lunch, she and Darren headed up to the Great Hall for the Christmas feast, only to see that the House tables had vanished and been replaced by a single table with twelve place settings.

“Welcome!” Dumbledore said happily. “There are so few of us staying, I thought it silly to use the House tables. Please, sit!”

Hermione sat next to the Ravenclaw. Darren took a seat two down from Dumbledore, across from Snape. Potter and Weasley appeared and took seats on the other side of the Ravenclaw. Food sparkled into existence on the table.

“Dig in,” Dumbledore said brightly, but before they could serve themselves, the doors burst open and a slim woman in oversized glasses floated in.

“Sibyll!” Dumbledore said. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“I was crystal-gazing, Headmaster,” she said sagely. Hermione realized she was the Divination teacher. “To my surprise, I saw myself joining you, so of course, I hastened down here at once.”

“Naturally,” Dumbledore said. Potter and Weasley were stifling giggles. “Shall I draw you up a chair?”

Her unnaturally-magnified eyes darted over them all; then she gave a sharp scream. “I dare not, Headmaster! If I sit, we shall number thirteen! Never forget, when thirteen dine together, the first to rise shall be the first to die!”

“I think we’ll risk it,” McGonagall said irritably while Dumbledore quite literally drew a chair between her and Snape. “Do sit down, the turkey’s getting stone-cold.”

The unfamiliar woman lowered herself slowly, as though afraid the table would blow itself apart. “Tripe, Sibyll?” McGonagall asked, sounding as though she rather enjoyed taunting her.

Hermione’s stuffed nose meant she couldn’t taste much of her lunch, but the company was pleasant enough. She found herself relaxing into the jokes and genial atmosphere. When it came time to pull the crackers, Snape got one with a vulture-topped hat. Hermione’s eyes widened - she had heard the rumors, of course, but she hadn't put much stock in them.

It was possible she was going to have to start believing the rumor mill, since she kept getting proven wrong.

Snape traded his hat for Dumbledore’s, scowling at it as though it was the hat’s fault his boggart-self had been forced into a witch’s hat and robes...but really, he was a student’s biggest fear, which was saying something. Even if the student was Neville Longbottom.

By the end of the meal, she had gotten two decks of cards. Deciding that was enough, she headed back to the library - she’d found a spell that promised to move everything solid out of the way and wanted to read up on it. 

By the time break ended, she’d mastered that and a few other helpful spells, including one that created a rope of flame. There had been a rather startling incident with that one, but hopefully the tapestry was far enough out of the way nobody would find it for a good long while.

At the end of their first Defense lesson after break, Lupin held her back. “Will this Thursday work for the Patronus lessons?” he asked. “Eight o’clock, the History of Magic classroom?”

“I’ll be there,” she promised.

True to her word, she was waiting in Binns’ classroom at five to eight that Thursday. Potter was there, as well. She nodded at him in greeting.

“D’you know anything about the Patronus?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “Only what I could find in the library.”

He blinked at her. “There’s books on the Patronus in the library?”

“Yes,” she said after a pause, wondering if maybe his brains were a little scrambled. 

“Excellent!” Lupin pronounced as he entered, carrying a trunk. “You’re both here. Now. In here is a boggart, which will take the form of a dementor when Harry is closest.” He beamed at them, as though facing a boggart-dementor was a treat. “So! The Patronus Charm is immensely complex. Many adult wizards - and witches - have difficulty casting it.

“As with a boggart, your mind is the key to casting the charm. Instead of trying to think of something funny, however, you will be focusing on a single, very happy memory. Think of one now. When you’re ready to try, the incantation is _Expecto patronum_.”

Hermione thought. She’d already tried nearly every happy memory she had. What was left?

“I got mist!” Potter said excitedly. “Did you see that?”

“Very good, Harry,” Lupin said approvingly.

Damn Potter, showing off. Now she was going to have to cast fast.

Her mind whirled. When had she been happy? She’d had the dorm to herself over break, and she’d liked that. She hadn’t had to perform for anyone, or brush off the Mudblood jokes, or clean up after any pranks. Yes, this last break would work.

“ _Expecto patronum,_ ” she muttered.

Nothing happened. “Something happier, Hermione,” Lupin said.

She scowled. Something happier than being left alone….

“I’m drawing a blank,” she admitted after a minute or so.

“What were you thinking of last time?”

“Over break, I had the dorm to myself. There were no Mudblood jokes, and nobody bothered me.” She smiled just thinking about it.

Lupin winced. “What about before Hogwarts? Or over summer break?”

She was shaking her head before he even finished speaking. “Family’s right out.”

“Then what about when you got your owl?” Potter suggested.

“What owl?”

“The owl that said you’d be coming here.”

She shook her head again. “There was no owl. McGonagall showed up.” 

“Hogwarts has always had a teacher go to explain to Muggle-borns,” Lupin explained. “They must not have done that for you because of your Aunt Petunia. Will that work, Hermione?”

“I tried it.” Despite her words, she did her best to remember that day, the excitement of knowing she wouldn’t have to work ten months out of the year. She fixed that moment as clearly in her memory as she could and muttered, _”Expecto patronum.”_

Once more, nothing happened. She slumped.

“That’s all right,” Lupin said. “We’ll keep trying until you get it. Harry, see if you can get anything more solid than mist while we work over here.”

By nine o’clock, Hermione hadn’t gotten even a wisp. Lupin sent them on their way, telling Hermione to try to find a happier memory or even a good dream.

And that was how it went for just over a month. Hermione eventually managed to get wisps by concentrating on the fact she’d never have to go home again, if Dumbledore was to be believed; Harry’s form was almost solid. Four weeks after they began, Lupin opened the boggart-containing trunk, and a dementor swooped out. Instantly the air got cold, and Hermione’s determination faltered. She’d just have to go back to work anyway; why fight anything?

She saw Harry raise his wand and followed suit. _”Expecto patronum,_ ” they whispered together. Twin wisps of silvery smoke curled through the air, making the dementor pause.

Hermione refocused. She was never going home, and she was never going to have sex again. _”Expecto patronum,_ ” she repeated. The mist grew larger. Seeing this, Harry also recast. Together, their mists were almost as large as they were.

Hermione’s hand started to shake. Sweat beaded her face, and she blinked to keep it out of her eyes. Her underarms were damp and sticky.

Harry fell, his mist dissolving away. There were screams in Hermione’s head, screams and blood and gore….

“Wake up!” Lupin yelled, slapping her cheek.

She blinked muzzily up at his face, silhouetted by the classroom ceiling. “Wha?” she mumbled.

“You fainted,” Lupin explained, sitting back on his heels. “Both of you, that was phenomenal.”

“We couldn’t drive it away,” Harry said from somewhere to her left.

“But you halted it,” Lupin said. “If you’d gotten it first time, I would have been astonished. Hermione, can you sit up?”

She eased herself into a seat and accepted the chocolate frog Lupin handed her with a muttered thanks. The chocolate made her feel better than she had in a long time, warming her from the core outwards.

“I heard him,” Harry said abruptly.

“Who?” Lupin asked.

“He kept saying, ‘Take Harry and go’.”

Lupin paled. “Harry, if you’d rather not go any farther-”

“No!” Harry said furiously. “I have to get this. What if they come to another Quidditch match?”

“Please,” Hermione said. “We have to practice if we're ever going to get it right.”

“Very well,” Lupin said. “Once more, and once more only. I don’t want Madam Pomfrey scolding me for keeping you ‘til all hours.”

Hermione set the remaining half of her chocolate frog on the table and took her position two steps behind and one left of Harry. “Ready?” Lupin asked.

Hermione thought, _I’m never going home. I’m never working again. I’m never going home. I’m never working again._ Mantra now fixed firmly in her mind, she nodded. A moment later, Harry did the same.

Lupin waved his wand, and the dementor swooped out. _”Expecto patronum,_ ” she yelled, not waiting for it to affect her this time. The silver burst from her wand and almost coalesced before twisting in on itself and waving a shadowy shield into place. Harry’s mist stayed half-formed in the shape of a large, four-legged animal with a strangely-shaped head. Together, the almost-right spells forced the dementor back into its box.

“Well done!” Lupin cried. “Well done, the both of you! I’m amazed you did so well your first night facing it.”

Hermione lowered her wand, bitterness and jealousy taking hold. Harry had done most of the work. Her spell would have failed completely if not for his. She _had_ to get better at this.

“Here, then,” Lupin said. “I picked these up the last time I was in Hogsmeade.”

He held out two bottles of something amber. Hermione and Harry each accepted one.

“Butterbeer,” Lupin said happily, uncapping his own bottle. “I dunno - have you had this before?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, at the exact moment Hermione said, “No.”

“Huh. Well drink up, and finish your chocolate, the both of you.”

The cold soda tasted like butterscotch. The candy was too sweet for Hermione's taste, but the drink was excellent. “Wow,” she said after her first sip. “Thanks!”

Lupin smiled at her. “It’s no problem at all,” he assured her.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment; then Harry asked, “What’s under a dementor’s hood?”

From the way he blurted it out, it had clearly been on his mind for a while. Hermione realized she didn’t know, either.

“The only people who know,” Lupin said slowly, “are in no position to tell us. A dementor only lowers its hood to use its last and greatest weapon. The Dementor's Kiss.”

“What?” Harry asked blankly. “They kiss-?”

“No - no,” Lupin said. “That’s just what it's called. What they actually do is - is suck out their victim’s soul.”

“That's horrible,” Hermione said, appalled.

“It’s the fate that awaits Sirius Black. It was in this morning’s paper.”

“He deserves it,” Harry said bitterly.

“You think so?” Lupin asked. “You think anyone deserves that?”

“Yes. For - for some things.”

“And you, Hermione?”

She thought a moment. “I’m with Harry. Some people deserve it.”

“I see.” Lupin sounded disappointed.

Hermione didn’t care about his disappointment - or at least, that’s what she told herself. Some people’s souls were just too filthy to stay in the world.


	11. Shut Up, Granger

That Saturday dawned clear and cold. The Ravenclaw/Gryffindor match was scheduled, so after breakfast, most of the school trooped down to the pitch. Hermione stayed behind, slipping into an empty dungeon classroom.

_”Expecto patronum,”_ she whispered, concentrating hard on the idea of never going home again. Silver mist came from her wand, twisted in on itself, and collapsed. 

She growled in frustration and tried again, and again, and again, until she was sweating bullets and her arm ached.

“I told you it was difficult,” said a voice from the door, and she whirled around.

“Professor Lupin,” she said.

He smiled at her. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Frustration makes it harder to cast. Clear your mind, take a breath, and try again.”

She did as he said, and the next time she cast, it wavered in a half-formed shape before dissolving.

“Good,” he said approvingly. “Now, let’s run along to lunch.”

“It’s lunch already?”

He chuckled. “Gryffindor won, by the way.”

“Of course they did,” she muttered, and followed him up to the Great Hall.  
***  
The Patronus lessons continued. Near the end of January, Hermione finally managed to get her Patronus to coalesce into an otter. Soon after, Harry produced a stag. Lupin was delighted.

The first weekend of February, Hogwarts erupted with gossip that Sirius Black had broken into Gryffindor Tower, ripped apart Ron Weasley’s bed hangings, and stood over him with a knife. Weasley’s retellings of the tale grew steadily more dramatic, until he was just narrowly avoiding being stabbed before grabbing his wand and chasing Black out of the Tower.

The next weekend, Malfoy was gloating that Buckbeak was going to be executed. He was nearly howling in triumph.

Hermione stared at him. “Didn’t you provoke him after Hagrid told you not to?”

“Who cares?” Parkinson said viciously.

“I mean,” Hermione said, “it was your own fault. Why are you happy that-”

A hex hit her from behind. “Shut up, Granger,” Nott grumbled, and stepped over her. She flailed for her wand to remove the spell currently causing her upper half to swell to six times her normal size.

Halfway through March, Dumbledore called her to his office after dinner.

“We are fast approaching the end of the school year,” he said when she was seated.

Hermione nodded and plucked at her robes.

“I believe I have found a suitable placement for you,” he said. “There is a Squib in Little Whinging by the name of Arabella Figg. She has agreed to take you in for the summer.”

Hermione nodded again.

“Is that acceptable to you?”

For a third time, Hermione nodded, knowing she didn’t have much choice. 

Dumbledore’s blue eyes pierced her. “I don’t intend to make you feel trapped into this, Miss Granger,” he said. “Too many people have already wronged you. If you would prefer something else, we can make that happen.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, sir,” she said quietly. “Miss Figg is fine.”

“Excellent.” He leaned back in his chair. “Well, then. How is school going for you?”

“Well, thanks.”

“Your teachers sing your praises - although I dare say turning in twelve rolls of parchment rather than two nearly gave Professor Flitwick a conniption.” He chuckled.

Hermione forced a smile. She hadn’t meant for that assignment to get so out of hand, but the more she read the more she wrote, and suddenly it was six times as long as it needed to be.

“Professor Lupin says you’ve recently managed a corporeal Patronus. That is excellent, particularly for a witch of your age.”

“Thank you, sir,” she mumbled.

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” he asked. “Anything I can help you with? Anything at all?”

Hermione very nearly told him everything - how she was being hexed every time she turned around, how she was waking to nightmares more often than not, how it was getting harder to care about things she was supposed to care about - but stopped herself at the last minute. Professor Dumbledore was a very busy man, and the Headmaster, and he had more important things to worry about than one stupid little girl. “No, sir,” she said instead.

He looked almost sad. “Very well, then. I believe it’s almost your curfew.”

“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Miss Granger.”

That night, she dreamt of a faceless woman shrieking obscenities at her and pinning her to a bed.

In that week’s Patronus lessons with Professor Lupin, she failed to produce even mist. For the first time in two months, she lost consciousness to the feeling of brain matter splattering her face.

Lupin spritzed water on her face to wake her up. “What happened?” he asked, handing her a piece of chocolate.

Hermione bit off a piece, breathing hard. “I don’t know,” she lied.

“Did you try to use a different memory?”

She shook her head.

“Then what happened?”

She hesitated, eyes flicking over to Harry before thinking, _Bugger it._ “Professor Dumbledore found me somewhere to stay over the summer.”

“And?” Lupin prompted when she didn’t continue.

“What if it’s worse than my parents’ house?”

Lupin thought. “From what I’ve been told,” he said slowly, “it really couldn’t be.”

“What happened at your parents’?” Harry asked.

Hermione wrapped her arms around her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Who is he putting you with?” Lupin asked.

“Some woman named Arabella Figg, over in Little Whinging.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Mrs. Figg knows Dumbledore?”

“How do you know Mrs. Figg?”

“She used to babysit me whenever my aunt and uncle went out of town.”

“What’s she like?”

“Lonely. Lot of cats. How does she know Dumbledore?”

“He said she was a Squib.”

“And she never told me?” Harry sounded angry, now.

Lupin cleared his throat. “I know Arabella Figg,” he said. “Harry, Dumbledore specifically told her not to let you know she was a Squib. Hermione, she’s really a good person.”

“Why didn’t Dumbledore want me to know?” Harry demanded.

Lupin shrugged helplessly. “I suspect he has his reasons. Now, let’s try the Patronus Charm again.”

They let him redirect them back to the task at hand. This time, Hermione’s otter wavered into being.

When she made it back to the common room, Parkinson grabbed her arm and towed her over to the other third-years. “All right, Granger,” Nott said, “where have you been going every week for the past few months?”

“Why do you care?”

“We’re curious,” Malfoy drawled.

Hermione crossed her arms. “You don’t talk to me except to hex me and now you want to know where I’ve been going?”

“Pretty much,” Bulstrode said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “So why should I tell you?”

“We’ve been holding back,” Nott said. “Unless you want to see what we’re _really_ capable of…”

He trailed off, letting the threat hang in the air. Hermione frowned at him, thinking it through, and then said, “Fine! Professor Lupin’s been teaching me the Patronus Charm.”

“Like a Mudblood like you could learn that,” Malfoy said dismissively.

Rage swelled within her. She whipped out her wand and snarled, “ _Prurio!_ ”

Malfoy yelped as painful, itching hives sprung into existence all over his body. Hermione waved a shield around her to intercept the hexes that came at her in retaliation and said, “The next time you call me a Mudblood, you won’t have teeth. And, for the record” - she cleared her mind - “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

Her otter burst from her wand and settled at her feet, curled in a defensive position. The common room grew quiet and stared at her.

Hermione whirled to face them all. “Look at the Mudblood, everyone! Conjuring a Patronus! My filthy blood doesn’t stop me from being better than all of you! Just _leave me alone!_ ”

She fled to her room, her Patronus racing after her. She fell into her bed and sobbed into her pillow as her otter dissolved.

The door creaked open. She heard footsteps, and then a weight settled on her bed. She scrambled to get her back to a wall, legs bent protectively in front of her.

Bulstrode was sitting there. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Hermione watched her warily. “For what?”

“That, down there.” Bulstrode sighed. “I haven’t ever seen you lose it like that. You doing okay?”

Hermione laughed semi-hysterically. “Do you actually care?”

Bulstrode’s lips tightened. “I still haven’t forgotten those bruises last year.” Hermione looked away. “I don’t like you much, Granger, but I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Then get people to stop hexing me,” she said. “I don’t want your pity, Bulstrode.”

“It’s not pity.” Bulstrode shook her head. “You need some serious help, you know that?”

“Go away,” Hermione said flatly.

“Fine,” Bulstrode said. “But if you ever want to tell me what’s going on with you, you know where to find me.” She slid off the bed, then turned back and said, “You know Malfoy’s going to retaliate. Be careful, Granger.”

Hermione fell asleep that night to whirring thoughts. When her alarm went off the next morning, she turned it off and stared at the canopy of her bed, debating whether getting up and going to class was worth the energy she’d use.

She got up and brushed her teeth. _One class at a time,_ she told herself.

That day was difficult. In Transfiguration, they started on multiphasic spells by turning a teapot into a tortoise. To do that, they had to change the outside of the teapot into a tortoise’s shape, create the organs inside, and then start the heart beating and blood flowing. It was difficult and fiddly, and Hermione scowled down at her tortoise near the end of class. She was the only one to get the spell to work at all, but the shell still held bits of the teapot’s original pattern.

They also started on Cheering Charms with Flitwick. Hermione was not in the mood to be cheered, and so she had difficulty actually casting the spell. She did manage it, however, and Justin Finch-Fletchley of Hufflepuff left the classroom for lunch with a bounce in his step.

After lunch came Arithmancy, and a test Hermione had completely forgotten about. She tried to work her way through the complicated equations using logic alone, but turned it in at the end of the period feeling like she’d failed. To round out the day, they were harvesting Puffapods for Sprout, and Parkinson managed to make the plant squirt stinking sap all over their table.

The worst part, though, was that at dinner she took a sip of her pumpkin juice and promptly choked. She coughed, trying to get it out of her throat, but it wouldn’t leave. It seemed to be getting bigger, in fact. She flailed, slapping at the arms of the people next to her, and fell backward off the bench, trying to breathe. Her vision greyed out. The last thing she saw was the candles floating above her.


	12. Interlude: Home

She woke to the sight of blue sky. She sat up and rubbed her head. Where was she?

As if summoned by her thoughts, a young woman appeared. “Hey, Dorcas,” she said.

Hermione caught sight of her scarred arms. “Laura?”

Laura smiled. “You remember me, then?”

“Of course I do,” Hermione said, grabbing her in a hug.

Laura hugged her back. “It’s a shame you’re here.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, voice muffled by Laura’s shoulder.

“Where do you think we are?”

“I dunno.”

“We’re home,” Laura said simply, and released her. Hermione took a step back and looked around. Gravestones greeted her. 

“Home?” Hermione said blankly.

“Yes, Dorcas. Home.”

Laura rested her hand on a gravestone. Hermione read the epitaph:   
_LAURA MEREDITH INGALLS  
JUNE 1 1978-SEPTEMBER 17 1993_

“Is this you?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Laura said. “After the raid, I couldn’t handle it anymore.”

“So you’re…?”

“Dead, yes.”

“Then how am I talking to you?”

A shadow passed over her face. “Dorcas, you have a choice to make.”

“A choice?”

“A choice.” Laura swallowed. “You’re at a - a crossroads, I suppose. You can choose to move forward into the afterlife, or back into life.”

“The afterlife?” Hermione repeated. “But what happened? How did I die?”

“I’m not sure,” Laura said. “I haven’t been able to find you, so I didn’t see. You don’t have much time, though, only until sundown.”

“What happens then?”

“Then you have no choice. You’ll come with me.”

Hermione looked to the sky. The sun was blazing directly overhead. “How did you die?”

“I killed myself,” Laura said simply. “Dorcas...magic is real.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I’m a witch.”

Laura laughed. “I’m a Squib.”

“My headmaster is sending me to live with a Squib this summer,” Hermione said.

Laura nodded. “Anyway. My family’s pureblood, so the idea of producing a Squib child...did you know that there’s a story that the earlier and more often a woman has children, the better she’ll be at making good heirs?”

“Really?”

“Yes. Some purebloods, like the Malfoys, think that’s nonsense, but some families still believe it. My family did. They sent me to - that place” - she swallowed - “so that I could produce a wizard when I was married. And I couldn’t take it anymore. You know what it’s like to always be a disappointment, right? You were there, too.”

Hermione nodded. “I understand. My parents said I couldn’t be a wife, so I’d be a whore.”

“Exactly,” Laura said. “And it’s bullshit, right, you’d think people who have kids would be the people who want kids, but so many - so many don’t give a shit, or just want an heir, or don’t want them at all. And that’s where we live, with those people, and we learn not to give a shit, and we die knowing nobody cares about us.”

Hermione nodded. “I know.”

“The afterlife is great, Dorcas,” Laura said earnestly. “Nobody makes me do anything I don’t want to do. Some of the other girls are here already. We don’t have to fuck old men. We can just...be.”

Hermione imagined it. “That sounds wonderful.”

“It is.” Laura smiled sadly. “But here’s the thing - once you’re here, you’re here forever. There’s no going back.”

“But if I go now, will I ever see you again?”

“You can always come back,” Laura said. “We’ll be here.”

Hermione imagined it. Staying in one place, with people who cared and whom she could care about, not having to have sex - it sounded like paradise.

But what about life? What about Hogwarts? What about finding out how she’d died?

“I think I have to go back,” she said slowly.

Laura nodded. “Live well, Dorcas,” she said, and grabbed her in another hug.

Hermione hugged back. “My real name’s Hermione,” she said.

Laura’s arms grew tighter, until Hermione was being squished. She felt herself growing smaller, and abruptly, her world went black.


	13. Months?!

Hermione peeled her eyes open with a Herculean effort. The ceiling above her was white. She blinked at it for a few moments before she thought to figure out where she was. She levered herself up on rusty elbows and looked around to see neat rows of beds with privacy curtains hanging, ready to be pulled around.

Hospital wing.

Madam Pomfrey bustled out of her office. “Awake, are you?” she said briskly.

Hermione tried to answer, but all that came out was, “Mah-ong.”

Pomfrey flicked her wand, and the head of the bed raised so Hermione could rest against it and still be mostly upright. She handed Hermione a glass of water and said, “Drink that slowly, now, it’s been some time since you’ve had anything to drink.”

Hermione sipped. Clear cool exploded in her mouth, and she swallowed greedily. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. It ran out far too soon.

Pomfrey sighed. “Don’t know why I bother,” she muttered. Louder, she said, “If you can keep that down, you can have more.”

“What happened?” Hermione asked. Her voice came out tiny and hoarse.

Pomfrey scowled. “Someone put Draught of Living Death in your pumpkin juice. One of the ingredients is-”

“Valerian,” Hermione said.

Pomfrey nodded. “The combination of your reaction to valerian and the potion itself was quite a shock to your system.”

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“Five and a half months, now. It’s nearly time for next term to start.”

Hermione gaped at her. “It’s - but - how-”

Pomfrey smiled kindly. “The Draught of Living Death had to - well, not wear off, precisely, but if we gave you the antidote you would have had another reaction to the valerian. Professor Snape researched alternatives for months before he found one that would help you.”

“Months,” Hermione repeated. “It’s been months.”  


“Yes, dear,” Madam Pomfrey said patiently. “Months. If you’re worried about classes, there are notes on the bedside table for all you’ve missed. I’ll have some soup brought up for you, and you can read through them if you’d like.”

She bustled away before Hermione could think of an answer. Hermione stared across the room and thought, _Five and a half months. Those **fuckers.**_

She knew who had dosed her, of course; Malfoy wasn’t one to let her questioning of him go unpunished, and it was just like him to “forget” she was allergic to valerian. Making her fall asleep in the middle of the Great Hall fit with his warped sense of justice - she’d questioned him in the relative privacy of the Slytherin common room, so he had to humiliate her in the middle of the Great Hall. It was just like him.

But what to do about it? Retaliating openly would just earn her more hatred from her year-mates in Slytherin. Whatever she did, it would have to be subtle, and she would have to have a damn good alibi.

Nausea made itself abruptly known. She rolled on her side and vomited over the edge of the bed.

“ _Evanesco,_ ” Pomfrey’s voice said when she was done. “Miss Granger, I told you not to drink so fast.” A wet cloth was placed on the back of her neck. Pomfrey rolled her onto her back and placed another on her forehead. 

“Sorry,” Hermione managed.

Pomfrey twitched her wand and muttered something. Hermione’s mouth cleaned itself out of any residuals, leaving behind a cool tingling not unlike mouthwash. “We’ll hold off on the soup,” Pomfrey said. “You’re sick of sleep, I’m sure, so why don’t you start catching up on your subjects?”

Hermione took the proffered parchments and stifled a sigh. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do, really, besides try to learn what she’d missed.

Snape stopped by just before dinner. He lowered himself into a chair by her bedside, steepled his fingers, and said, “So, Miss Granger. We’ve traced the potion back to young Misters Malfoy and Nott. Rest assured, I have punished them severely.” His lips curled in a cruel smile. “I do not tolerate potions being used unwisely.”

Hermione swallowed and nodded.

“You should not have any trouble from them. If you do, you must come to me _immediately,_ is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. On a different note, after the Draught of living Death had cleared from your system, you were having nightmares. Would you like to talk about them.”

“No,” Hermione said, though his tone had made it clear it wasn’t a question.

Sure enough, Snape said, “Allow me to rephrase. What were your nightmares about?”

“I don’t remember,” Hermione said, and it was the honest truth.

Snape examined her critically. “You know how I feel about lying, Miss Granger.”

“I’m not lying!” she said.

“Mm. Have you had nightmares in the past?”

Hermione begrudgingly admitted, “Yes.”

“How often, would you say? A few times a month?”

“A few times a night,” she said.

“Every night.”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose you’ve tried the standard ways of preventing them? Meditation, avoiding sugary foods…?”

“Yeah.”

“And those didn’t help?”

“No.”

“Interesting.” He rubbed his chin. “What I am about to offer you, Miss Granger, is something I have offered to just three students in my entire career. It is not something to be entered into lightly. It will take work - hard work - but it may help you.

“Have you ever heard of Occlumency?”

Hermione thought furiously. “I’ve heard of it,” she said finally, “but I don’t know much about it.”

“Occlumency is the art of protecting one’s mind from outside influence,” Snape explained. “Its counterpart, Legilimency, allows the caster to see inside an open mind and glean information there.”

“So it’s like mind-reading?”

Snape scowled. “Only an imbecile would call it mind-reading,” he snapped. “The mind is not a book, to be perused at leisure. It is far more complicated, and Legilimency far more subtle, than any book.”

Hermione nodded. Snape took a breath and continued on. “Occlumency not only allows one to protect oneself from mental intrusions, but also grants one mastery over thoughts. For example, your nightmares. Occlumency may help you learn to block them out, allowing you restful sleep again.”

Hermione nodded again.

“If you accept, you will be the youngest student I have ever attempted to teach,” Snape told her. “I have only taught seventh-years, and only those with a natural inclination toward the art. Think hard on it; it’s a difficult skill to master.”

“But you can teach me,” Hermione said.

“I can.”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “When can we start?”

“Once the school year begins, we will set a time, perhaps under the pretense of catching you up in third-year potions.” Snape stood. “I will see you in class, Miss Granger.”

He swept out. Hermione returned to her Charms notes.  
***  
The Welcoming Feast that year was awkward, to say the least. None of her year-mates could quite look her in the eye or manage to speak to her in anything louder than a mumble. For her part, Hermione largely ignored them, poring instead over her Defense text for that year. She wanted to be as prepared as possible.

When the doors crashed open, interrupting Dumbledore’s welcoming speech, Hermione jumped. A man stalked into the room, but he was scarred, and one leg made a peculiar _thud_ every time he put it down. One of his eyes was a small, beady dark brown; the other, a large electric blue that rolled around independently of its partner.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” Dumbledore said brightly. “This is Professor Moody.”

Very few people pulled themselves together quickly enough to clap. Unconcerned, Moody speared a sausage with a knife, sniffed it with a half-missing nose, and then took a bite.

“Well, then,” Dumbledore said. “Yes. As I was saying, this year we are to play host to the Triwizard Tournament.”

“You’re JOKING!” one of the Weasley twins roared from the Gryffindor table.

“I am not, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore said, “though now that you mention it, I did hear one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a bar” - McGonagall cleared her throat - “though perhaps now is not the time...no….”

Dumbledore launched into an explanation of the tournament’s history. When he announced that no one under the age of seventeen would be allowed to compete, groans sounded from all over the Hall. 

Greengrass, Parkinson and Bulstrode talked of nothing but the tournament that night. Hermione was cheerfully ignored.

At breakfast the next morning, they got their schedules. Snape stopped behind her and said, “Miss Granger, meet me Saturday afternoon in my office, directly after lunch. There’s still the matter of the classes you missed last year.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and looked at her schedule.

“Ugh,” Parkinson said. “History of Magic first thing.”

“And Astronomy Friday,” Malfoy said gloomily.

“Herbology with the Ravenclaws, though,” Nott said, sounding like he was trying to be optimistic.

“Great. People to ruin the curve,” Bulstrode said.

“Granger wrecks all the curves,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes.

Hermione left for class.

Though Monday’s classes were much what she’d expected, Tuesday began with a bang. The fourth-year Slytherins filed silently into Moody’s classroom. Hermione’s hopes for this year weren’t high; Lupin had been the only Defense teacher even approaching competent, and he wasn’t teaching anymore, which meant he’d probably died.

The door closed with a drawn-out creak. Moody stumped to the front of the room, taking roll as he went. When he called Hermione’s name, he frowned and said, “Haven’t heard your surname before.”

“I’m Muggle-born, sir.”

“A Muggle-born in with the Purebloods. Interesting. Daphne Greengrass?”

When he’d ascertained that all nine of were in the room, he put down the roster and said, “Let’s get right into it, then. Who can tell me why Unforgivable Curses are called Unforgivables?”

They gave each other uneasy looks. It was Bulstrode who eventually raised her hand and said, “Using any one of them will get you a life sentence in Azkaban.”

“Partially right, two points to Slytherin. Using any of them on _another human_ will get you a life sentence. Who can name one of them for me?”

Malfoy was the first to be called on. “The Killing Curse.”

Moody hauled a jar of spiders from his desk. “Need to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea - _Engorgio!_ ” The spiders grew to the size of his hand. He reached in and picked one out, then pointed his wand and said, _”Avada kedavra!_ ”

There was a brilliant flash of bright green light. The spider withered, its legs crumpling into its middle.

“Instant, painless death,” he informed them. “You can’t dodge, you can’t block. Only one person has ever survived it. Who can give me another one?”

Goyle raised his hand, and wasn’t _that_ a shock? He’d never raised his hand in class, not so far as Hermione could remember. “Cruciatus,” he grunted when he was called on.

“Right. The Torture Curse. Unending pain.” He pulled out another spider. “ _Crucio!_ ”

The spider jerked and started rolling from side to side. If it had lungs, it would surely have been screaming.

“You don’t need thumbscrews or the rack when you’ve got the Cruciatus Curse,” Moody informed them, lifting the curse. He dropped the spider back into the jar. “And the last one - anybody?”

It was Parkinson who answered this time: “Imperius.”

“Right.” He pulled out the final spider and snarled, “ _Imperio!_ ” The spider jumped from his hand and started to dance.

“Total, complete control,” Moody informed them. “Now that the demonstration is done, get out your parchment and quill, copy this down.”

Their homework was to write an essay on which Unforgivable was the worst, to be backed up with facts and personal experience. They were released to lunch.

Though taking notes on antidotes for Potions that afternoon wasn’t enough to distract her, their Herbology class was revolting enough to drive all thoughts of the Unforgivables from Hermione’s mind. They were squeezing the pus from bubotubers so Madam Pomfrey could make acne cream. Parkinson got some on her arm and had to go to the hospital wing when welts sprung up on her arm.

“And that,” Sprout said, “is why you never use undiluted bubotuber pus.”

In Potions on Friday, they began brewing the antidote to hemlock. Unsurprisingly, Longbottom’s cauldron melted, Finnegan’s blew up, Crabbe created a new form of cement, and Goyle’s potion could take over for drain cleaner. The rest of the class was “barely passable”, according to Snape.

As instructed, Hermione went to Snape’s office directly after lunch on Saturday. Snape closed the door behind her with a lazy flick of his wand. Hermione tensed - she knew, she _knew_ Professor Snape wouldn’t touch her, not like that, but it was so very hard to convince her subconscious that being alone with someone wouldn’t end in pain.

“Legilimency, as I’ve told you, is the art of defending one’s mind from intruders,” Snape began. “What else is it used for?”

“Controlling your thoughts,” Hermione said promptly.

“Correct. Before we begin in earnest, I must see just how strong your natural shields are, and so - _Legilimens!_ ”

Snape invaded her mind easily. Hermione could feel him in there, and tried to push him out. The room dissolved from view, and in its place was Lockhart, smiling and handing her a lollipop - _No,_ she thought desperately, that was _private_ , it was humiliating enough in her own thoughts, she didn’t want Snape to see - she pushed back with all of her strength -

And was abruptly back in Snape’s office. She hit her hands and knees on the floor, laboring to catch her breath.

“That was...not as horrible as it could have been,” Snape said when she clambered to her feet. “Ready for another go?” When she nodded, he said, “ _Legilimens!_ ”

This time, she was prepared for the room to disappear. She could feel Snape in her mind again, invading every piece and crevice that made up Hermione Dorcas Granger, and tried to push him out even as her bedroom at home appeared around them. She could see herself - her younger self, six at most - asleep in the bed. The door creaked open.

Again, she found herself on hands and knees, fighting for breath. This time, she was also fighting back tears.

Snape looked disturbed. “How old were you?” he asked.

“Six,” she managed, voice cracking. “God, I looked so - so _young_ -”

“You _are_ young,” Snape said.

“Why?” she asked him. “Why do people - why did I have to - just - _why?_ ”

He regarded her, on the floor in a position she’d found herself in far too often. “Because evil is everywhere,” he said at last. “Come. Off the floor. Once more, and then we’ll discuss.”

The third time, Hermione was looking at her father kick a door, an unconscious Hermione in his arms. A masked man opened it and ushered them inside. _No,_ Hermione thought fiercely, _no, no, no-_

She was on the floor again. This time her legs had gone all the way out from under her and she was crumpled in a heap on the ground.

“Better,” Snape said flatly. “Have a seat, Miss Granger.”

Hermione dragged herself up into one of the armchairs in front of Snape’s desk. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“So,” Snape said after a lengthy pause. “What was that last memory?”

“The first night I worked,” Hermione said, studying the rug under his desk. There was a Celtic pattern woven in.

“Mm.” Snape’s tone gave nothing away. “You need to work on your mental discipline. If I wanted to stay in your mind, you aren’t strong enough to push me out.”

“How do I do that?”

“Meditation. Before bed, every night, I want you to practice clearing your thoughts. If you have any dreams, write them in a journal when you wake up.”

“Why?”

“Dreams are our mind’s way of working out problems, Miss Granger. If you write down what you’re trying to work out, you’ll have a better command of your mind.”

Hermione nodded slowly, thinking that over.

“Once more before you’re dismissed,” Snape said. “You may as well stay sitting.”

“Okay.”

“ _Legilimens!_ ”

Hermione was back in the warehouse, staring at the policewoman, a man’s arm around her throat. She did _not_ want to see this again. She focused on the feeling of Snape in her mind, doing her best to ignore the scene in front of her, and pushed as hard as she could. Snape didn’t move. She gritted her teeth and pulled up all her strength, shoving at him.

“No one’s going to shoot you,” the policewoman was saying. _Fuck,_ Hermione thought, the man was about to explode. She pummeled at Snape’s mind, trying to get him out and failing. The man’s head turned into flying blood and brain matter.

She was back in Snape’s office. Snape was looking unusually pale. Hermione folded her arms over her chest, fighting the urge to run her fingers through her hair and make sure there wasn’t blood in it, swallowing down bile that was trying to escape her stomach.

“Well,” Snape said finally. “That was certainly an interesting memory.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would that be the night the Muggle newspapers talked about?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you like to - er - discuss it?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well, then.” Snape seemed to recover some of his composure. “You’re dismissed. Don’t forget to clear your mind before bed.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Hermione didn’t quite run from the room.

She needed _air._ The Slytherin common room was under the lake, and the grounds would be full of students enjoying the weather before winter set in. The North Tower it was.

On the fourth floor, a noise caught her attention. It sounded like crying. She turned toward the sound, frowning.

The next sound was most definitely laughter. Hermione thought, _Just some friends hanging around, move on, Granger,_ but she couldn’t make herself move - and oh, yes, that was most _definitely_ a cry of pain. The smart thing to do would be to get a teacher. The cunning thing to do would be to pretend she hadn’t heard anything. 

She palmed her wand and stalked toward the sound.

The sounds were coming from behind a classroom door that was oh-so-slightly ajar. Hermione peeked through the gap. Two girls, a blonde and a brunette, were on the floor. The blonde was glaring up at a gang of four older students, a hand on the shoulder of crying brunette.

“ _Adesse,_ ” one of the older students drawled. The brunette’s hand flew up and smacked the blonde’s nose. “ _Adhero._ ”

Blood began to trickle out from behind the brunette’s hand, now stuck to the blonde’s face. Hermione stuck her wand through the gap and whispered, “ _Expelliarmus._ ”

Six wands flew through the air toward her. Hermione caught them neatly as the four older students whirled to face her.

“This’s got nothing to do with you,” one with Ravenclaw trim growled.

“It does now,” Hermione said grimly. “ _Gelesco! Arretica! Adhero!_ ” The older students’ feet were stuck to the ground moments before a net covered them and stuck itself to the ground. For good measure, she hit them all with a Susurrus Charm to be sure they couldn’t speak loud enough to interrupt them.

She tucked the extra wands into her robes and crossed to the younger girls. “Are you all right?” she asked, casting the counterspell to the Sticking Charm. The brunette’s hand dropped to the floor.

“I dink by nose is broken,” the blonde said.

“They did something to my feet,” the brunette added, pulling up her robes to reveal birds’ legs where her shoes should be.

Hermione blinked. “Well,” she said, “I suppose we’re going to Madam Pomfrey, then. Or - actually - hang on, I know a spell….” She focused. “ _Sermo argumavis!_ ” A silver bird burst from her wand. “Find McGonagall,” she instructed it. “There’s a student with birds’ legs and one with a broken nose in an unused classroom on the third floor. Please come.”

The bird's’ beak opened. Her own voice said, “There’s a student with birds’ legs in an unused classroom on the fourth floor. Please come.”

It spiralled away out the window. “Wow,” the brunette said. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Library.” Hermione cracked a small smile. “It’s amazing what they have in there. I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”

“Luna Lovegood,” the blonde said, still plugging her freely-bleeding nose.

“Right - we were in the same train compartment a few years ago. _Conjurus_ tissue." Hermione handed Lovegood the tissue that appeared at the end of her wand.

“Danks.”

“And you?” Hermione asked the brunette.

“Demelza Robbins.” She sniffled. “Why are you helping us?”

“Would you rather I have turned around and left?” Hermione asked smartly.

“No, but you’re - you’re Slytherin!”

“Well spotted,” she said dryly. “Here” - she handed Robbins a tissue and conjured a second for Lovegood - “calm down. It’s okay now. McGonagall and Pomfrey will set you two right.” She cast a dark glance over her shoulder. “And McGonagall, at least, will deal with them. Probably Flitwick and Snape too, they’re in their Houses.”

She was _not_ looking forward to sleeping in Slytherin tonight.

McGonagall arrived at a run. “What on _earth_ ,” she said when she saw the older students trapped in a net.

“Over here, Professor McGonagall,” Hermione said.

McGonagall looked over. “Miss Granger,” she said. “I _thought_ that was your voice.”

Hermione smiled weakly. “Yes, well. Lovegood’s nose is broken and Robbins has bird feet.”

McGonagall came closer. “So she does,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder at the students in the net. “Did you curse them to not talk?”

“I think it’s technically a charm?”

“The Silencing Charm?”

“No,” Hermione said, “Susurrus.”

McGonagall sat next to Robbins and examining her legs. She tapped them with her wand a few times and examined the shapes that appeared.

At last, she shook her head. “You’ll need to go to the hospital wing,” she told Robbins. “I don’t want you walking there, so you’ll have to be hovered. Miss Granger, if you could remove the net and the charms.” Hermione nodded and undid her spells. 

Immediately, they were talking: “Professor, it wasn’t us-”

“-came in from nowhere-”

“-cursed them, she did-”

“-Disarmed us-”

“Enough,” McGonagall said, and they fell silent. “We will all be going to the hospital wing. Your Heads of House will meet us there, and we’ll figure out what really happened.”

Snape and Flitwick did, indeed, meet them at the hospital wing. McGonagall went inside to get Robbins on a bed; Lovegood followed her, still holding the tissue to her nose. McGonagall returned alone. “My office or yours?” she asked Flitwick.

“Yours, I should think,” he said.

She nodded and led the way. When they were all inside, the door closed behind them, she said, “Now. One at a time, we need to hear what happened.”

“You all know how I feel about lying,” Snape added sleekly.

“Mister Flint,” McGonagall said, turning her eyes on one of the Slytherins. “Let’s hear your version.”

“We were working on the human Transfiguration you set us,” Flint said. “The little girls came in and got hit by a spell. One of them tripped and fell. We were about to see if they were okay when she _attacked_ us!”

One by one, the other Slytherin and both of the Ravenclaws gave their stories, which matched Flint’s. Hermione’s, however, most assuredly did not.

“Flint, Roderick, Bode, and Huxley,” Snape said. “For _lying to me_ , you’ll have detention for two months with Filch.”

“And Miss Granger?” Flitwick squeaked.

“Truthful.”.

“In that case, I think it had better be fifty points each from your Houses, and another month’s detention with Filch, for attacking students _four years_ below you.”

“Any retaliation against Miss Granger, Miss Lovegood, or Miss Robbins will result in worse consequences,” Snape added. “All of you, dismissed.”

Nobody moved.

“Well?” McGonagall prompted.

“She’s got our wands,” one of the Ravenclaws said.

Hermione started - she’d forgotten about that. She pulled six wands from where she’d stashed them and offered them, handle first. The older students grabbed theirs and left in a huff. Hermione headed to the hospital wing, where she found Lovegood sitting by Robbins’ bed.

“Wands,” she said, holding them out.

“Thanks,” Lovegood said, accepting them. “Madam Pomfrey knocked Demelza out.”

“Any ideas for changing her legs back?”

“Not that she said. Things have a way of working out for the best, though.”

“Mm,” Hermione said noncommittally. “Be careful, okay?”

Lovegood smiled. “I’ve got the Mornapps looking out for me. I’ll be fine.”

Hermione could only blink. “Er - right,” she said. “Anyway. See you around.”

“See you.” Lovegood stuck her wand behind her ear like Muggles did with pencils and settled in for a long wait. Hermione continued on to the North Tower.

Her earlier assessment had been right: there was nobody up there. She leaned on the crenellations, staring out over the Forbidden Forest without really seeing anything.

Snape could see inside her head. She’d spent the summer unconscious. She’d just made enemies with four seventh-years. Malfoy needed to get what was coming to him. She’d had to write an essay on why being forced to do things against one’s own will was a bad thing. And, to top it all off, her head hurt.

 _One problem at a time,_ she told herself, and set herself to thinking of how best to get revenge on Malfoy.


	14. Imperio!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The series of mystery novels I mention is the Heather Wells series by Meg Cabot. I recommend them highly - she does just as well writing adult books as teen books.

The answer to the Malfoy problem hit Hermione like a ton of bricks just as she left her second Occlumency lesson.

Her first step was to convince the ghosts to help. Peeves agreed on sheer principle - who didn’t love a little chaos? When Hermione worked up the nerve to ask the Bloody Baron, he heard her out and agreed almost immediately; he didn’t like Malfoy any more than she did. The Baron assured her he would recruit others.

That done, she spent all of Sunday in the library - not at all unusual, so if anyone were to come looking, they wouldn’t be surprised. When she had the first few items done, she went to the second-floor girls’ bathroom, where the Baron had told her she could find Moaning Myrtle. She used a Duplicating Spell to create copies and left them in Myrtle’s ghostly hands. Then she went to dinner, and then to the common room, and then to bed, where Bulstrode, Greengrass, and Parkinson could keep an eye on her all night long. 

When they went to breakfast the next morning, the posters were up. A caricature of Draco Malfoy looked at them every few feet down the hallway. Each was captioned.

Malfoy’s eyes locked onto a poster on the door to the Great Hall that showed him with a head ballooning outward into the Entrance Hall and said _DRACO MALFOY: HEAD CASE_. He spluttered in outrage. “Who - what - _who did this?_ ”

Hermione schooled her expression. It wouldn’t do to be seen as happy, after all.

Zabini rounded on her. “It was you, wasn’t it?” he snapped, fingering his wand.

Bulstrode rolled her eyes. “These were put up overnight. She was in the dorm.”

“All night?” Zabini demanded.

“Yes,” Hermione said, right as Bulstrode said, “My bed’s right next to the door, I’d hear it if she’d left.”

“Then who?” he asked.

Hermione shrugged and went in to breakfast.

At that Tuesday’s Defense lesson, Moody sprang a surprise on them all: he’d be placing them under the Imperius curse, to show them what it felt like. “It’s possible for a disciplined wizard to throw off the spell,” he said. “Let’s see if any of you have that discipline yet. This Friday, the nineteenth.”

Hermione went straight to the library after classes; though that was usual, she wasn’t looking for essay sources tonight. She was looking for books on the Imperius Curse, and how to resist it. She had low hopes for finding books on the topic in the general stacks; they were probably locked up in the Restricted Section. Still, she had to try.

Her initial hunch proved correct: all of those books were in the Restricted Section. Hermione was so preoccupied by thoughts of the Imperius Curse that the notes she took on the Summoning Charm, which they were just beginning in Flitwick’s class, were essentially useless.

No matter how much she worried, though, Friday rolled around. The only good thing, as far as she could tell, was that Defense was right after breakfast, and so she didn’t have to worry about it all day.

They filed in and sat in their usual seats, none of them quite sure what to expect. Moody was already at his desk; at precisely nine o’clock, he waved his wand. The door closed with a resounding _boom._

“Let’s begin,” he said. “Bulstrode, you’re up first. _Imperio!_ ”

Bulstrode hadn’t even had time to stand from her desk. As they watched, her eyes glazed over. Moody twitched his wand, and she stood to belt out _God Save the Queen_. Huh - so purebloods knew the song, too.

After Bulstrode sat back down, Moody began calling them up to the front of the room. Crabbe went next, performing some truly incredible gymnastics. Goyle hopped around, whistling like a bird. And then - well, then it was Hermione’s turn. “ _Imperio,_ ” Moody said, pointing his wand at her.

Hermione hadn’t known what to expect. If pressed, she would have guessed it would be like Legilimency, where she’d feel someone inside her mind, giving her directions.

It was nothing like that at all. Her mind was wiped clear, blissful emptiness replacing her usual tumult of thoughts. She couldn’t help enjoying it.

A voice in the back of her mind whispered, _Jump on the desk._

Hermione obediently bent her knees and jumped, landing neatly on top.

_Now lay down, on your back._

Hermione did as she was told. The desk wasn’t quite long enough to support all of her; it ended right around her hips, and her head hung backwards and upside-down.

She knew this position, but oddly, she wasn’t afraid. Everything was going to be all right. Maybe this time it would feel good.

The curse lifted. Hermione scrambled to her feet. Moody nodded at her, sending her back to her desk. She sat, arms crossed over her chest, feeling vulnerable and hating it.

Not long after, news of Beauxbatons’ and Durmstrang’s arrival hit the school. They’d show up on 30 October. Meanwhile, the adults of the castle went into a cleaning frenzy. Portraits winced over their rubbed-raw cheeks, the suits of armor shone, the tapestries lining the halls were subject to very thorough Scourgifies, and several first-years were reduced to tears by Filch when they tracked mud into the Entrance Hall.

For her part, Hermione stayed out of everyone’s way. Malfoy (who spent quite a lot of time talking about how he wished his mother had sent him to Durmstrang as originally planned) never had figured out who had put up the posters of him; he eventually blamed the Weasley twins, who denied the accusations with smirks on their faces. Malfoy tried to retaliate - Hermione wasn’t privy to the details, but she knew that he woke up with a spider the size of a Bludger sharing his bed. The entire dungeon heard his screams.

Potions that Friday was a single period rather than a double, which meant Snape didn’t have time to poison them in order to test their antidotes. Their class trooped out to the lawn to join the rest of the school in waiting. The teachers snapped at them to straighten their clothes, remove ostentatious jewelry, or _stand up straight!_

At long last, an enormous, powder-blue carriage sailed through the sky. Everyone watched, some of the younger students slack-jawed in amazement, as six enormous palominos landed and drew to a halt. A student jumped from the carriage they were pulling, fiddled with the door, and pulled down some steps.

A woman Hagrid’s size descended from the carriage. She had lovely olive skin, which contrasted nicely with the fur she was wearing.

“Madame Maxime!” Dumbledore boomed.

“Ahh, Professor Dumbly-dorr,” she purred, wading through the Hogwarts students to reach the steps.

Hermione ignored the ensuing cnversation in favor of watching the Beauxbatons students disembark. They were all wearing powder-blue silk, and many of the girls had scarves wrapped around their heads. Most of them had wary looks on their faces as they examined the castle and students.

“Come along inside, then,” Madame Maxime called to her pupils, and they hurried at once to join her in the Entrance Hall.

“Wonder how Durmstrang’s going to top that,” Hermione heard a Ravenclaw say.

They found out soon enough: the lake began to ripple. Students crowded forward, trying to get a better look. A long, thin piece of wood emerged first, followed by sails, and finally the main body of an enormous ship. It sailed silently to the shore, shedding water as it came, and docked. A wooden board slid down to the ground.

The first one off was a man around forty. As he came closer, Hermione could see his silver robes and small goatee. “Dumbledore!” he boomed.

“Professor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore said. “How have you been?”

“Blooming. You don’t mind if we come inside, do you? Viktor has a slight head cold - Viktor, come along, into the warmth-”

“That’s Viktor Krum,” Nott whispered excitedly.

“Who?” Hermione asked. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she was ignored.

When they’d all piled into the Great Hall, Durmstrang had decided to sit with the Slytherins, and Dumbledore’s welcoming speech was over, Hermione got her answer in a rather roundabout way.

“Not impressed with His Holiness?” one of the Durmstrang girls asked her.

Hermione blinked. “Erm. What?”

“Krum,” she said. “You do not gather like the others do.”

Hermione shrugged. “Don’t see what the fuss is. Is he famous or something, back home?”

“He is on Bulgarian Quidditch team. Very good seeker.” She offered her hand. “Petra Bozhidar.”

“Hermione Granger,” she said, and shook. “I’ve never really gotten into sports.”

Petra nodded. “Studies are more important.”

“Exactly!” Hermione beamed at her.

They chatted amiably about their respective schools until dinner was over. Hermione barely bothered to listen to Dumbledore’s speech on the Tournament, knowing she wouldn’t be able to enter anyway.

At the end of the next day’s Occlumency session, Hermione asked, “Who do you suppose will make Champion?”

“I neither know nor care,” Snape said shortly.

She gave up and turned to leave. Before she quite made it to the door, he added, “I would suggest reviewing the differences between Adrastea and Amalthea before you turn in that Astronomy essay.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hermione skipped dinner to finish writing the essay. It wasn’t due for six more days, but the weekend was for getting homework done so the week was less stressful. Besides, it wasn’t like she had anything else to do.

When she made it to the common room, it was drawing down on ten o’clock. The few students in the room scowled down at parchments or chess games. Hermione bypassed them and went straight to bed.

The next morning, she found out that Potter had been chosen as school champion alongside Diggory of Hufflepuff. She rolled her eyes - honestly, didn’t he get enough attention already? - and returned to the library. Under the gimlet eye of Madam Pince, she didn’t have to worry about surreptitiously hexed, and so she spent a rather enjoyable day working her way through a series of American mystery novels about a pop-star-turned-dorm-director. 

That Friday, Malfoy unveiled what he’d been working on for nearly a week: badges that proclaimed SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY - THE **_REAL_** HOGWARTS CHAMPION! When they were pressed, they changed to say POTTER STINKS. Hermione wore one out of a desire to avoid being hexed.

Before Potions that morning, Potter and Malfoy got into it again. Hermione wasn’t paying attention, preferring instead to study her notes, so she was taken off-guard when spells went flying. She didn’t have a chance to get her wand up before a jet of light hit her full in the face. She cried out as her head slammed back into the wall.

“What is going on out here?” Snape snarled, flinging open the door to the classroom.

Something weird was happening with Hermione’s mouth. She put her hand up and felt her front teeth growing - growing - they weren’t stopping.

“Hospital wing, Granger,” Snape said briskly. “Ah - Bulstrode, escort her, if you will.”

Bulstrode accompanied her up to Pomfrey. Neither of them spoke. Pomfrey took one look at her teeth - now grown to well beneath her chin - and whipped out her wand. Hermione sat perfectly still for the countercurse. 

Bulstrode was gone by the time Pomfrey handed her a mirror. “Tell me when they’re back to normal,” she said, and cast the spell.

Hermione watched her front teeth shrink, fascinated. Her teeth had never been her best feature; she’d wished them smaller so many times! And Pomfrey was fixing them! She didn’t say, “Stop,” until they were small enough to look like they actually belonged in her mouth.

“You’ll have to stay here for another hour,” Pomfrey said when she was done. “I’ll need to make sure they don’t revert.”


	15. Please Help Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: according to a few websites, "uh" is used in both American English and Bulgarian as a filler word. ("Er" in the Harry Potter books and, presumably, British English.)

For the next week, speculation about the first task ran wild. Historically, the first task had been creature-based - at least, according to _Hogwarts, A History_ \- and so rumors flew that the champions would have to face a basilisk, or an occamy, or a band of hippogriffs. One Muggleborn first-year convinced several of her friends that not only were jabberwockies real, but also that the Ministry had ordered three of them over the summer, and were scrambling to purchase a fourth.

The day before the first task, Potter found her after dinner, as she was heading to the library. “Granger,” he said, “I need help.”

She blinked at him, and then asked the first question that came to mind: “Why ask me?”

Potter ran a hand through his hair. “You’re the best in our year, and we worked on the Patronus together last term, so I thought you’d be willing. Granger, _please_ help me.”

Hermione sighed. “What do you need?”

“I need to learn to do a Summoning Charm, properly, by tomorrow afternoon.”

She blinked at him. “A Summoning Charm? By tomorrow? Why?”

He glanced around, then grabbed her by the arm and towed her into an empty classroom. He closed the door behind them, then said, “The first task is dragons.”

“Dragons?” she repeated. “Have you been listening to the Ravenclaw second-years? They’ve got a bet going that it’ll be dragons, they’ve all pooled their savings from what I’ve heard-”

“No,” he said, “this came from - well, it’s not important, but I’ve seen them, and if I can’t Summon my Firebolt from the castle tomorrow I’m dead. Literally, dead!”

“Okay,” Hermione said soothingly. “It’ll be okay. Take out your wand and show me what you’re doing.”

They stayed in the classroom long past curfew. Every time Hermione tried to leave, Potter started to freak out again, and so every time she stayed to work with him some more. Around two in the morning he finally managed to Summon a book from across the room.

“Good job,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Get it four more times and you’ll be good to go.”

They parted ways half an hour later and snuck back to their respective common rooms. Hermione fell into bed still clothed and neglected, for the first time in a month, to clear her thoughts before sleep claimed her.

In her dreams, a shadowy man was on top of her, whispering in her ear and calling her filth. She elbowed him in the gut and ran, but there was no door. She turned to face the man and found her parents instead, who called her a fuck-up and a disgrace and a heathen, sullied and impure, unfit for any life but that of a whore because she was no virgin. She turned and clawed at the wall, desperate to escape. Her mom grabbed her shoulders and smacked her across the face.

Hermione woke with a start, breathing heavily. Bulstrode was leaning over her; behind her was Parkinson. “What?” she said.

“You were having a nightmare,” Bulstrode said.

“Sorry.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.” The faint light of false dawn was creeping in through the fake window. “What time is it?”

“Six.” Parkinson sniffed. “Good job we were getting up anyway.”

“Sorry,” she said again. “I’m going to the loo.”

Hermione’s hands were shaking when she splashed water on her face. It had been a long time since she’d had a nightmare that bad. She tried to take deep, calming breaths, but couldn’t quite manage it.

Parkinson’s kit hit the sink beside her. “You were out late last night,” she said conversationally. “Date?”

“No. Helping a Ravenclaw with Arithmancy.” The lie flowed off her tongue easily.

“Boring,” Parkinson pronounced. “Was he at least cute?”

Hermione considered. “Well enough,” she said at last. 

“Hmph. I didn’t think you’d have the guts to stay out after curfew, Little Miss Perfect.”

Hermione glanced sideways at Parkinson applying mascara and said, “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

“Like where those bruises came from second and third year?”

“Like that,” Hermione agreed easily, though Parkinson seeing the bruises at the beginning of last year came as a surprise. “We’d better go, or we’ll be late for Potions.”

After lunch, they all trooped out to the Quidditch pitch for the first task. Forewarned by Potter, Hermione wasn’t as surprised as everyone else by the appearance of the first dragon: a Swedish Short-Snout, to be faced by Diggory. Diggory raised his wand and shouted something; one of the boulders at the dragon’s feet turned into a large black dog, which distracted the dragon long enough for Diggory to dart in and grab a golden egg. Unfortunately, the dragon felt him between her feet and roared fire down at him, which he tried to block as he ran away. After a quick check by Pomfrey, he returned to get his score with half his face slathered in burn cream. The judges gave him 38 points.

The second dragon, a common Welsh Green, was faced by Delacour, who put her to sleep. She strode forward to get the egg, but the dragon snored and shot flame from its nose, which set her skirt on fire. Fleur put it out with a jet of water and hurried to get the egg. After another short pause in which she was given a once-over by Pomfrey, she returned to receive her score of 36 points.

The third was a Chinese Fireball for Viktor Krum, who shot a curse into its eyes. The dragon started stamping around in pain, crushing its eggs, and Krum dodged to get the golden one before hightailing it back to safety. He forewent the trip to Pomfrey and was awarded 40 points.

The last, to be faced by Potter, was a Hungarian Horntail. Hermione watched as he raised his wand - _Come on,_ she thought, _if I lost sleep for nothing…._

Her worry was in vain: his broomstick came zooming toward him shortly after he raised his wand. He mounted and pushed off, drawing the dragon’s attention toward him, pulling her slowly away from her eggs. Nearly three minutes later, the dragon stood, and Potter shot down to grab the egg and careened away from the flame that shot toward him. He didn’t see the tail, and the spikes cut his arm. They could all see the blood when he landed, and nobody was surprised when he trooped off to Pomfrey.

He returned with a redhead in tow to get his score, also 40 points. He was tied for first with Viktor Krum.

For the next few weeks, all anyone could talk about was how each of the champions had bested their dragon. Hermione grew tired of the talk soon enough and retreated to the library, where she could study for class or read ahead in peace.

The first full week of December, Flitwick held them back after Charms to announce the Yule Ball, a dance to be held on Christmas Day in honor of the Triwizard Tournament. That certainly shifted the focus of the gossips; rather than discussing how the champions had done, they were now discussing who the champions would do. They all expected Diggory to go with a Ravenclaw named Cho Chang; they’d been going steady for a year now. The other three were up for grabs, and Hermione witnessed the champions being ambushed by Hogwarts students more times than she could count. Krum took to hiding in the library, which worked until his fan club figured out where he was, and then they joined him there, giggling and tittering until Hermione took her books to the empty History of Magic classroom instead.

Meanwhile, McGonagall had them working on Cross-Species Switches, and Snape had them working on antidotes with a ferocity they’d come to expect from such a harsh teacher. The other classes, however, had devolved into games and relaxation now that they were so close to winter break and the Yule Ball.

The final night of term, Krum entered the library as he usually did after dinner. Hermione began gathering up her materials - his fan club wouldn’t be far behind - but to her surprise, Krum marched right up to her table and said, “Vould you go to the ball vit me?”

Hermione blinked at him. “Er,” she said. “What?”

“Vould you go the ball vit me,” he repeated.

“Is this a joke?” she demanded. “Who put you up to this?”

“Is not joke,” he protested. “You are beautiful, and smart, and I vould like to know you better.”

She examined him. He _seemed_ truthful enough. She made a quick decision - maybe not the smartest, but a decision nonetheless. “Sure,” she said, and smiled.

He grinned back. Before she knew what he was doing, he picked up her hand, kissed it, and left.

After that, he joined her in the library nearly every day, researching or reading books in Bulgarian. Sometimes they talked; sometimes they didn’t. He taught her spells, and seemed to like when she was blunt enough to startle a laugh from him. She looked up spells to alter clothing and tried them, one after another.

Two days before the Ball, Hermione laid a set of old school robes on her bed. With a few quick Transfigurations, the robes were the shape she wanted; a simple Color-Change Charm turned them periwinkle. She took them into the bathroom to try them on.

Parkinson walked in while she was making a few final adjustments. “Are those for the ball?” she asked.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “I just need to figure out something to do with my hair, now. Oh, no, and makeup.” She groaned. “ _Why_ did I agree to go to this thing?”

“Someone asked you?” Parkinson asked eagerly. “Who?”

She shook her head. “I’ll tell you when I’m sure it’s not a prank.”

Parkinson rolled her eyes. “Fine. Millicent, get in here!” she yelled.

“What’s up?” Bulstrode asked at the door.

“Granger’s got a date to the Yule Ball,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Doesn’t know what to do with hair and makeup.”

Bulstrode smiled slowly. “Let’s fix that, then.”

Two days later, Hermione stared at herself in the mirror. Bulstrode and Parkinson had outdone themselves. “Wow,” she said softly.

“We do good work,” Bulstrode said smugly. “You’re welcome.”

“I - yeah, thank you,” she said, still staring. Her hair was sleek and shiny, her eyes were rimmed in black, her blemishes had been covered, every inch of her had been tweezed and shaved and moisturized...she had never looked this good.

“Come on, then,” Parkinson said impatiently. “Tell us who he is!”

She shook her head. “Still might be a prank,” she said.

“Fine,” Parkinson said. “You know we’ll find out soon.”

“I know,” she said, and left it at that as she sailed out of the bathroom.

It was early still, but Hermione made her way up to the Entrance Hall. She was exceptionally worried that Krum had asked her out only as a prank; though their regular studying in the library had seemed to argue against that, Hermione knew just how well men could lie. She wasn’t going to get her hopes up that he actually liked her.

She wasn’t.

The Entrance Hall slowly filled up with students, most of whom blinked at Hermione like she was an alien. They turned away after a few seconds of staring, finding their dates.

“Erm-onny?”

She straightened and turn to face Krum, who was leading the Durmstrang students into the Entrance Hall. “Hello, Viktor,” she said, steeling herself. If it was a joke, this was when he’d point and laugh at the stupid desperate Mudblood who thought a professional Quidditch player could be interested in her.

He stared at her, eyes traveling slowly down and then up, and then muttered something that sounded like, “ _Krasiv._ ” She reached for her wand at the unfamiliar word, sure it was a spell, but he smiled. “Beautiful.”

“Oh,” she muttered, feeling herself blush. She let her own eyes travel up and down Krum- no, Viktor, this wasn’t a prank, she could call him by his first name. He looked very smart in his dress robes, and she told him so.

“Thank you,” he said, formally offering her his arm. “Shall ve?”

“Sure,” she said, accepting.

McGonagall hurried over. “Mr. Krum - Miss Granger - champions and their dates line up near the doors, now.”

Hermione wasn’t quite sure about the rest of the night. She knew that they ate something delicious, and she and Krum danced quite a lot, but that was all she could remember of the Yule Ball itself. She knew Viktor kissed her on one cheek before he left for his ship, and she was bewildered that that was all he wanted from her.

Maybe he was one of those storybook gentlemen from those novels her mother liked so much.

The next day, Viktor sat next to her at breakfast. They exchanged small smiles, and Viktor held her hand beneath the tabletop. Afterwards, he asked her to go on a walk with him, and she agreed.

He stopped when they were halfway around the lake, the wind whipping at their cloaks, and Hermione was grateful she had put on so many Warming Charms or they would have been driven inside long ago. “Er-moniny,” he said - still the closest he could say her name - “I vas hoping for your help vith the Second Task.”

She blinked at him. “What’s the problem?”

“The clue is in English,” he said, “and English is not my first langvage. Vould you listen?”

“Listen?” she asked in interest.

“The clue is in Mermish, vich in English undervater. I think I have it, but just in case….”

He trailed off, looking at her hopefully, and she nodded. He Summoned the clue to him - why hadn’t he just done that against the dragon? - and dunked it below the water before opening it. Muffled sound came out, and she realized she was going to have to put her head below water to hear it.

“If you push me in, I’ll curse your testicles off,” she said calmly.

Viktor winced. “Vould you really?”

“If you pushed me into the Black Lake while I’m doing you a favor and it’s minus ten outside? Yes.” Hermione gathered her hair back, got to her knees, and half-crawled forward until she was far enough forward. She took a deep breath and pushed the side of her head into the water.

The nerves screamed: it was _so cold_ , even with all her Warming Charms. She forced the feeling to the side and listened:

_-what you’ll sorely miss_  
But past an hour, the prospect’s black,  
Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back. 

_Come seek us where our voices sound_  
We cannot sing above the ground  
An hour long you’ll have to look  
And to recover what we took  
And while you’re searching, ponder this:  
We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss  
But past an hour, the prospect’s black,  
Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back 

_Come seek us where our voices sound-_

She pulled her head up out of the water and grabbed her wand to dry off her face. She clambered to her feet and recited what she’d heard. He listened, concentrating.

“So the mermaids vill take take something special, and I’ll have one hour to find it,” he said.

“Sounds like,” Hermione agreed.

“Thank you,” he said. “I misunderstood.”

“What did you think it was?”

“Uh - they vould take me and I vould have to get avay.”

Hermione grinned. “Nope. Just something you care about.”

He carefully shut the egg below the water’s surface and brought it out. After a moment’s thought, a spell sent it soaring off toward the Durmstrang ship. “I should begin preparing, I suppose,” he said ruefully.

Hermione immediately started telling him about the creatures in the lake, none of which but the Giant Squid were truly _dangerous_ assuming you were properly prepared. They finished their walk around the lake just as lunch was starting, and then retired to the library, where they worked in companionable silence until dinner.

The moment Hermione walked into her dorm that night, Parkinson and Bulstrode pounced on her. “Spill,” Bulstrode ordered, pushing her down onto the bed.

“Spill what?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, come on,” Parkinson said. “You’re dating _Viktor Krum!_ And it’s not a prank, not the way he looks at you, so spill. Tell us everything. What happened after we left last night?”

That was right - Hermione and Viktor were two of the very few people who had stayed until the end of the ball at midnight. Most everyone else was gone by eleven.

“We danced,” she said. “He kissed my cheek.”

“You didn’t go for the lips?” Bulstrode asked, appalled. “Are you off your trolley?”

“He either really likes you or can’t stand you,” Parkinson said, elbowing Bulstrode out of the way.

“Well, we spent today together, too, so….”

They both squealed. “He really likes you!” Parkinson said. “I’m so _jealous._ ”

“You’ve got Draco,” Bulstrode pointed out.

“And you’ve got Theodore,” Parkinson shot back. “But Krum….” She sighed.

“Way out of their league,” Bulstrode said, also sighing happily.

“Should I be worried about you killing me in my sleep?” Hermione asked warily. She was always worried about hexes, but actual death was something she hadn’t seriously considered until now.

“We’d just hex you until you’re uglier than ever,” Parkinson said dismissively.

And there it was: that little bit of cruelty most of their interactions held. Hermione stood and got ready for bed.

For the rest of the break, Hermione and Viktor spent their days much the same as they had spent the 26th: a walk in the morning, and the library in the afternoon. A week after the Ball, Viktor kissed her lips for the first time, and Hermione had a brief flash of horrible memory before she realized this felt nothing at all like what she remembered. This actually felt _good._ She _enjoyed_ it.

She kept a smile on her face until Viktor had left, closing the doors behind him, and then ran to the nearest toilet, where she promptly lost all of her dinner. She curled in on herself and sobbed, feeling dirty and filthy and _slutty_. How could she have enjoyed that? Worse, she could feel wetness in her underwear, and she was aroused; why? Why was her body betraying her like this, begging her for sex when sex was just pain with a prettier name?

Oh, she knew Viktor wasn’t like the rest. Viktor wouldn’t force her. Viktor wouldn’t get angry if she said no, or blackmail her like Lockhart had, or tie her up like she had been on the job. He wouldn’t knock her unconscious so she’d wake with him inside her, as some of her clients enjoyed. He wouldn’t beat her black and blue for not performing to his standard. Viktor was kind, and sweet, and wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to do, of that she was certain.

But her body wanted it just as much as her mind was screaming against it, and she didn’t know what to do.


	16. What I'd Miss Most

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Butchering proto-Slavic in the name of creating spells is my FAVORITEST THING EVER.
> 
> (JK. I love dead languages.)

The news came out in the _Daily Prophet_ the first day of term: Hagrid was a half-giant. Over the course of the week, Hermione learned that not only was it a bad thing (giants were vicious by nature), but that Hagrid had stopped teaching classes. Grubbly-Plank took over instead. Hermione barely paid attention; she didn’t know Hagrid at all, she didn’t take Care of Magical Creatures, and it just didn’t matter. She was too busy quietly wrestling her own mind.

The moment she stepped foot into Snape’s office for her first Occlumency lesson after break, she knew that Snape knew something was wrong. It was in the way his eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, and the jerkiness of his hand as he waved his wand to lock the door behind her. Even after all this time alone with him, all these years of knowing he wasn’t like _that_ , Hermione still tensed at being alone with a man. She took a chair when Snape nodded at it.

Snape broke the silence. “What happened?”

She flushed. “Nothing.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Nothing? Or nothing you want me to know about?”

“Just - er - private...stuff….” She trailed into a mumble near the end, feeling about two inches tall under Snape’s gaze.

“I suppose I had better just find out for myself, then,” he said calmly. “ _Legilimens!_ ”

Hermione instantly shoved her thoughts to the side and focused on thinking of nothing at all. Over long months, it had become instinct to focus on nothing but the invasion. She and Snape battled it out, long seconds stretching into longer minutes, before Snape lifted the spell.

Hermione was sweating and panting like she’d just run a marathon. Snape wasn’t even breathing hard.

“You practiced over the break.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered it anyway. “Yes, sir.”

“Have your nightmares come to an end?”

“Mostly.”

“How often are they waking you?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Once or twice a night.”

“Then we’ll need to go a bit further. You’ve mastered clearing your mind, and have begun to create a basic shield around your conscious thoughts. Now it is time to work on controlling your _un_ -conscious mind.”

“How do I do that?”

“The first step is to make you aware of your subconscious. Tell me, in your time in the Muggle world, did you ever come across mindful meditation?”

Hermione shook her head slowly.

“Hmmph. Ideally, it should be done several times a week. In Tuesday’s class, I’d like you to do something so foolish I will have no choice but to give you a month of detentions. Perhaps you’d like to start a duel over an insult?”

Hermione blinked. “How? Nobody ever talks to me.”

He smirked. “I suppose I shall just have to bully you until one of the Gryffindors decides to stand up for you.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I’ll attack your blood status,” Snape said. “Weasley, at least, won’t be able to resist.”

“But then you’ll have to give him detention.”

“And?” When Hermione stared, he scowled and said, “I’ll make him serve it with Hagrid, will that satisfy you?”

“Fine,” Hermione said crossly. “I’ll curse Weasley.”

“I believe I shall spend the weekend brewing Pinkeye Potion for Madam Pomfrey. Now, in mindful meditation, you’ll be following my instructions. Sit down, close your eyes, and _relax._ ”

Forty-five minutes later, Snape called her back. “Before you go to bed, continue clearing your mind,” he said. “However, before you begin, I want you take a parchment and write whatever your thoughts are. Even if they don’t make sense - _especially_ if they don’t make sense. That will allow you to understand more of what you are thinking of, and give you more control. Understand?” Hermione nodded. “Dismissed.”

She left to find Viktor. He was near the Durmstrang ship, dripping wet and obviously having just gone for a swim. “Testing the waters?” she asked.

He whirled, having apparently not heard her come up, and laughed. “Something like that, yes,” he said. “Vat are you doing? I have not seen you since lunch.”

“I had to talk to Snape,” she explained. “I missed the last few months of my third year, and still need to make up some work.”

“Vat happened?”

“ _Someone_ put Draught of Living Death into my pumpkin juice, which would have been a funny prank if I wasn’t allergic to valerian.”

“Do you know who?”

“Probably Malfoy,” she said.

“Vy vould he do that?”

“He hates Mudbloods,” she said.

“Mudbloods?”

“It’s - er - Muggle-borns. People born to non-magic parents.”

“Oh. Ve have similar word in Bulgaria, but it is very rude.”

“So is Mudblood. I’d rather call myself names than have other people call me them.” She blinked. “Did that make any sense at all?”

“Ne,” he said.

Hermione snorted a laugh. “Of course it didn’t. If I call myself a Mudblood, it doesn’t hurt as much when other people do.”

“Oh.” He shivered, picked up his wand from the pile of clothes at his feet, and muttered, “Teplo suchoje.” A moment later, he was warm and dry. “Vould you like to valk?”

“Maybe you should get dressed first,” she said, amused. “It’s a Hogsmeade weekend, so we could go to town, if you’d like.”

He shuddered. “I have been enjoying not being celebrity. If you vould like, I vill go vith you.”

She smiled. “I’m not going to make you. It’s not very impressive.”

He smiled. “Vat Scottish villages are?”

He sounded honestly curious, not like he was being derogatory, so she didn’t take offense. “I’ve never been around Scotland,” she admitted. “London’s all right, and that’s where most of the British wizarding shops are. I haven’t been to any big cities, really.”

“You vill have to come see Sofia, the Bulgarian capital. It is very nice. Maybe you could visit me over the summer?”

“I’ll try,” she said, smiling. “Do you know how you’re going to stay underwater for an hour?”

“You have beetle in your hair.” He brushed it off and said, “I vill Transfigure myself.”

She nodded slowly. “Advanced magic, eh?”

“Vill get more points from judges than Bubblehead Charm.”

By this point, Viktor had finished dressing, and they ambled around the lake for the rest of the day.

When Tuesday rolled around, Hermione was nervous. She kept her head down and waited for it to begin.

“Granger,” Snape snapped, “what is the main ingredient in a Calming Draught?”

“Er,” Hermione said. “Lavender?”

“Wrong. What is the main ingredient in an Invigoration Draught?”

She thought for a moment, mind whirling. “Rosemary?” she guessed, knowing the plant was often used in Muggle naturopathy.

He sneered. “Wrong again. Main stone used in a Draught of Peace?”

She had absolutely no idea how to even guess at that one, so she picked the first rock that came to mind. “Onyx?”

“Peppermint is used in Calming Draughts. Ginger is used in Invigoration Draughts, and moonstone is used in Draughts of Peace. Not that someone of your background would know that,” he sneered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Weasley demanded, indignant.

Snape turned on him. “Five points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn, Weasley. What do you _think_ I meant?”

“But - just because she’s Muggleborn doesn’t mean-”

“ _Conjunctiva,_ ” Hermione snarled. Ron staggered back, grabbing at his eyes. “I can take care of myself, Weasley.”

“Granger!” Snape yelled. “Detention! Weasley, get up to Pomfrey. Finnegan, go with him before you blow something up.”

Her cursing Weasley was the only thing the castle talked about for the next few days. Hermione ceased going anywhere without the strongest shield she could create surrounding her, and did her best to ignore the gossips. Even so, it was miserable until Lila Stangard, a fifth-year Ravenclaw, was found in a compromising position with Sam Keating, a seventh-year Gryffindor. 

Over the next month and a half, Hermione reported to Snape’s office on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights for ‘detention’. She spent most of the weekend with Viktor, studying in the library or walking around the lake. As 24 February grew closer, Viktor began to look more and more pale. The night before, Hermione nearly had to force-feed him.

Snape came out of the Great Hall just as they were saying good-night to each other. “Dumbledore wants you in his office,” he said when Viktor was gone. “Password is Bertie Bott’s.”

He swept away before she could respond. She turned and climbed the stairs to Dumbledore’s office, wondering what on earth he wanted to see her for.

Inside the office were Ron Weasley, who glared at her the moment she came in; Cho Chang, a sixth-year Ravenclaw; and a small girl and her mother, who had the same silvery-blonde hair as Fleur Delacour.

Dumbledore explained what he wanted from them. Nobody refused.  
***  
Hermione gasped for breath. She was cold and wet and the wind whipped at her face. She looked down, saw a shark, and flailed to get away, succeeding only in going under and inhaling water. The shark pushed her back to the surface - wait, no, it wasn’t a full shark, just the head of one. She started swimming for shore, where she could see stands full of people screaming. A moment later, Viktor’s head popped up beside her, and they swam forward together.

Pomfrey was waiting for them at the shoreline. Behind her, the elder Delacour, Diggory, and Chang were wrapped in blankets. As soon as Viktor and Hermione were out of the water, Pomfrey had them wrapped up, as well. 

“You got me,” Hermione said to Viktor, trying to smile.

“You vere vat I’d miss most.”

“In Britain, anyway.”

Viktor considered that for a second. “No. You vere vat I would miss most, anyvere.”

Hermione almost burst into tears at this pronouncement. Instead, she grabbed him in a hug. Viktor hugged her back, murmuring to her in Bulgarian. He liked her. He truly, honestly liked her. And she hadn’t had to have sex with him. She was floating on Cloud Nine, even wet and bedraggled on the shore of the Black Lake.

When Viktor kissed her on the lips a little later, she forced herself not to throw up afterwards.

Before her Occlumency lesson that night, Snape said, “I didn’t realize you and Krum were still dating.”

“We are,” Hermione said, pausing in pulling out her dream diary.

“Are you worried?”

“About what?” Snape raised his brows. “Okay. I was, at first, but he’s - he’s not like that.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s been two months. He’s never pushed for anything but kissing.”

“Not once,” Snape repeated skeptically.

“Never,” Hermione repeated.

Snape narrowed his eyes at her. “If I test your Occlumency now, will I find out differently?”

“No,” she said, exasperated.

“How are your nightmares coming along?” he asked, changing the subject entirely.

She shrugged. “Still about the same.”

He scowled. “They should be getting better.”

She shrugged helplessly. “Do you want me to lie and say they’re getting better?”

“Of course not,” he said dismissively, “that would defeat the purpose of what we’re doing here. _Legilimens!_ ”

Hermione shoved everything to her side, conscious and subconscious. In their place, she put up blank chalkboards. After a moment of trying to shove them aside, Snape retreated.

“We’ve come to the end of what I can do for nightmares,” Snape said.

Hermione winced. “There’s nothing else?”

“We can continue with Occlumency,” Snape said, “but that will be focused on defending yourself from attacks, not from your own mind.” He hesitated. “Without worrying you too much, it may be a skill that will be needed soon.”

Hermione frowned. “Why? What’s going on?”

He looked even more hesitant, odd for the normally stern professor. Finally, he said, “I tell you this in total confidence. You may tell _no one else_. Do you understand?”

Hermione nodded, eyes wide. This was important, then.

“The Dark Lord was not destroyed in Godric’s Hollow,” Snape said. “He’s on the move again. It looks like he may soon return to Britain.”

Hermione winced. “So that war’s not over, then?”

“No. You may want to practice defending yourself.”

He left off _Because you’re a Mudblood_ , for which she was grateful. If You-Know-Who did return to Britain before she left school, she’d be in with the children of Death Eaters. Learning to properly defend herself couldn’t hurt.

“Where should I start?”

“Flitwick used to be a dueling champion. I would suggest asking him.”

Hermione did just that, approaching her diminutive professor after Charms. He agreed to help her, and they settled on Thursday evenings.

Hermione and Viktor spent the weekend together, walking around the lake and studying for their classes. Viktor had been excused from his final exams, but he would still have to take the exit tests, which were supposed to be brutal. Viktor continued to kiss her before they departed, and Hermione continued to try not to be conflicted. It slowly became easier.

The first dueling lesson with Flitwick couldn’t come soon enough. Hermione knocked on the door of the Charms classroom after dinner. When the door swung open, she stepped inside and called, “Professor Flitwick?”

A jet of red light came flying at her and she immediately cast a Shield Charm to deflect it. More spells continued to come at her, and she cast Shield Charms desperately, not even attempting to strike back, as she groped for the doorknob behind her - if she could get outside, she could get help-

The door was locked. She discovered that the same instant as a blue ball came right through her shield and slammed her into the wall. She pushed out another shield as she struggled to her feet on wobbly legs.

“Better than expected,” Flitwick’s voice said, and she blinked. He was suddenly standing on top of his desk.

“Professor?” she asked weakly.

“Indeed. I wanted to see how you would react under pressure. You didn’t even try to cast an offensive spell,” he admonished.

“I was trying to get away,” she protested. 

Flitwick just nodded. “Again,” he said, raising his wand. “Let’s see what else needs work.”

When Hermione left two hours later, she ached all over. Though Flitwick had reversed all of the curses that had gotten through her shield, her body had still taken a lot of punishment. She hadn’t managed to hit him once.

The next morning, _Witch Weekly_ appeared about ten minutes after the _Daily Prophet_. Parkinson absently paid the owl, eyes glued to the cover. “Hey Granger,” she said, “listen to this.

“ _Krums of Affection - A young man, teetering on the brink of adulthood, is navigating through love at Hogwarts, writes Rita Skeeter. Far from his native Bulgaria, Viktor Krum finds himself smitten with one Hermione Granger, a rather plain fourth-year student. Outwardly, she returns the affection. Her actions, however, tell a different story. Sources close to the couple report they’ve barely kissed._

_“As has been widely reported, Krum is one of the best Seekers Bulgaria has seen in decades; following his capture of the Snitch at the most recent Quidditch World Cup, he is inarguably the best Seeker alive today. His fame and associated fortune is well-known by all but the most reclusive witches and wizards. As the Triwizard Champion from Durmstrang, his reputation continues to grow, and his rugged good looks certainly do not hurt._

_“Granger could not be more his opposite. As a Muggle-born, she has no fame or fortune to speak of. Sources say she has less interest in sports than the average kneazle, making her choice to date a Quidditch star rather suspect. A girl more known for her academics than her looks, Granger has no status to speak of even among her peers._

_“Even with all those differences, the couple is reportedly close. Krum has asked Granger to visit him at his home over the summer, which she coyly refused; after the Second Task, he told her, “You are what I would miss most, anywhere.”_ Aww,” Pansy teased.

_“So why the relationship? It is clear to see that Granger gets far more from dating a successful, handsome, Quidditch-playing pureblood than Krum does from a nerdy, homely, sports-repulsed Muggleborn. With those facts, this reporter suspects Granger is using her smarts nefariously, perhaps to make Love Potions, which are forbidden at Hogwarts. Surely the teachers will examine not only the possibility of her making them, but also the reasons for a fourteen-year-old to seduce a seventeen-year-old.”_

Hermione stared at her, mouth agape. “What?” she managed.

Parkinson waved the newspaper. “You heard me,” she said smugly. “What’d you do to piss off Skeeter?”

“Nothing!” Hermione protested. “I’ve never even met her! How dare she - love potions and seduction and stopping just short of calling me a Mudblood - that foul-”

“I know,” Parkinson said soothingly. “Come on, we have Potions and we can’t be late. You’re still in detention with Snape, remember?”

Still angry, Hermione grabbed her bag and stormed to the Potions classroom. This day was the _worst._

As it turned out, she was wrong. On Monday, she was woken by something tapping her forehead. She jackknifed to a sitting position to find a small owl on her pillow.

“How’d you get in?” she muttered.

It hooted at her and held out its leg. She pulled off the letter - clumsily, since she’d never actually used owl post before - and it took off, swooping through their fake window and vanishing.

She stared after it for a second, then shook herself and looked at the letter. Her name was on the outside, and she frowned and slit the seal.

_Hermione,_  
Please come to my office at once. The password is Blood Pops.  
Professor Dumbledore 

Well, _that_ wasn’t good. She scrambled into her uniform and jogged most of the way there.

Dumbledore was standing at one of the windows lining his circular office, staring outside. One hand was stroking the same small owl that had woken her.

He turned when she entered through the open door. “Miss Granger,” he said. He looked and sounded older than he usually did. “Have a seat.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Have a seat,” he repeated. The fireplace flared. “Ah - Auror Tonks,” he said.

“Professor Dumbledore,” she said, brushing the ash from her crimson robes and accidentally hitting her elbow on the bricks. She swore under her breath and moved away. “Are you Hermione Granger?”

“I am,” she said cautiously, still standing. “What’s happening?”

Tonks and Dumbledore looked at each other. Tonks’ hair slowly changed from mousy blonde to clown red, and Hermione watched, fascinated. 

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said, finally looking away from Tonks. “Please sit.”

She finally did. Tonks took the seat next to her, and Dumbledore sat behind the desk. “Lemon drop?” Dumbledore asked, holding out the tin. Both of his guests refused.

Tonks and Dumbledore glanced at each other again, and then Tonks took a breath. “Your parents,” she said slowly. “They - ah - the Muggle policemen arrested them last night.”

Hermione blinked at her. “For what?”

Tonks winced. “They were apparently found to have - erm - videos of...adult activities...with...children...on their - er - computer?”

It took a moment for her tired brain to understand the convoluted sentence. “Child pornography?” she said.

A look of relief flashed across her face. “Yes. Exactly. They - er - they also found some...materials in their home, that has - erm - led to an inquiry about their behavior towards...you.”

Hermione glanced at Dumbledore, who raised his hands. “I did tip them off,” he said.

“What? Why?” Hermione demanded.

“You aren’t safe there,” Dumbledore said simply. “As Muggles, they are outside Wizarding authority. I could not allow you to return, knowing what awaited you.”

“And that’s why I’m here,” Tonks said quickly. “In order for the MInistry of Magic to officially rescind their parental rights, we need you to make a statement.”

Hermione stared between them. “You told?” she asked Dumbledore, eyes blurring with tears. “You...you said you wouldn’t, unless I agreed.”

“Things change,” Dumbledore said gently. “Upcoming legislation would make it difficult to do things unofficially.”

Hermione couldn’t believe she’d trusted him to keep her secret. She wanted to scream, or cry, or break something. Instead, she turned toward Tonks and, knowing she wasn’t going to get out of it, asked, “What do you want from me?”

Later, Tonks tried to bring out photographs of the basement, but she couldn’t even look at them. Tonks gave up on them within two minutes and released her to breakfast.

That very day, an article appeared in the _Daily Prophet_ about how the parents of a Muggleborn at Hogwarts, whose name was being withheld due to her age, had been arrested for child pornography, child sexual abuse, and prostitution of a minor. Almost instantly there was speculation about who it could be. Hermione tried to act like the other Muggleborns, pretending she was shocked and outraged, and it was a good thing they didn’t know her too well or they would have seen right through it.

She was so busy pretending she somehow missed several owls vying for her attention. Greengrass nudged her to point them out. She grabbed the letters off their legs haphazardly and opened the first:

_Granger you are a horible persin Krum disserves better than you I will send a curse in the mail when I find a big enouf envelop_

“What?” she said, dropping it on the table and reaching for another one.

_GRANGER YOU ARE A FOUL MUDBLOOD. STAY AWAY FROM KRUM IF YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR YOU._

“Really?” she grumbled.

“Howler incoming,” Malfoy said, pointing. He sounded rather pleased.

The owl dropped it in front of her and flew away, apparently afraid to get caught in the crossfire when it went off. Hermione gingerly opened the flap.

“HERMIONE GRANGER YOU ARE A DISGUSTING SLAG! LEADING ON VIKTOR KRUM LIKE THAT! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF! PISS OFF, YOU PUG-UGLY TROLLOP!”

The letter burst into flames.

Parkinson and Bulstrode grabbed letters from the owls that had appeared as the Howler screeched at them. Hermione seized the nearest one and opened it, only to have something thick and sticky and horribly familiar leak onto her hands.

_I’m sending you this in case you don’t get enough from Krum. A cum-rag’s all you’re good for, anyway._

She turned around and threw it in the fire. Seeing this, Parkinson followed her lead with the other opened letters. Hermione wiped her hands on a napkin and grabbed another. As soon as she pierced the envelope, thick green goo spurted onto her hands. She shrieked in pain as the letter unfolded itself to reveal cutouts of magazine letters:

_GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM, MUGGLE_

“Undiluted bubotuber pus,” Bulstrode said. “You should get to Pomfrey.”

“Erm-oniny?” Krum asked, stopping across from her. She hadn’t even seen him come in. “What’s wrong?”

“Rita goddamn Skeeter,” she spat, eyes tearing from pain and humiliation, and ran for the hospital wing.

It took Pomfrey all of their first block to clean Hermione’s hands of everything they’d been subjected to that morning, and another half hour to slather them in cream and wrap them in bandages. When she was done, Hermione couldn’t even hold a quill - which was a problem, because she had Arithmancy as soon as Pomfrey released her. She suffered through her classes that day, angry and upset and in pain, and reported to Snape for Occlumency that night in no mood to do anything but crawl into her bed and feel sorry for herself.

Snape wasn’t about to let her do that, and Occlumency turned into an almost welcome relief as she shoved everything away and focused on creating surface thoughts about “silly schoolgirl things”, as Snape had put it when they first began working on misdirection.

The next morning, all of the letters she got were hovered directly into the fire. She couldn’t do anything about the Howlers but ignore them.

Over time, the hate mail began to slow down; seventeen days after the article was printed, none arrived, and she celebrated. In Occlumency, Snape informed her she was to the point of creating her own mental shields, which would be stronger than the standard shield he had taught her, and cancelled the lessons on Monday and Wednesday. She managed to hit Flitwick with a Stinging Hex near the middle of May, and he grinned delightedly at her and told her he would no longer be holding back.

On 28 May, Viktor met her before breakfast and quickly told her the Third Task would be a maze filled with creatures and obstacles. She promised to help him whenever she could. True to her word, she and Viktor used the empty Charms classroom after dinner and all weekend long to practice spells. Hermione learned quickly that she should borrow the cushions Flitwick had used when they were learning Banishing to avoid injury when she was thrown to the floor. They found a few interesting spells in the library, those few times they forewent preparation in order to do homework and ended up elbows-deep in spellbooks.

And then suddenly, it was 28 June, the date of Hermione’s History of Magic exam and of the Third Task. Hermione hated not being able to spend the morning preparing with Viktor; she dashed off the answers as quickly as she could and hurried to find him. When she finally did, she dragged him into an empty classroom and they hurled spells at each other until it was time for lunch, and then again afterwards all the way until dinner.

Karkaroff came to collect Viktor near the end of dinner. Viktor grabbed her and kissed her before following his headmaster out to the grounds.

“Worried about him?” Bulstrode asked.

“No,” Hermione lied.

Bulstrode gave her a look, but apparently decided not to call her on it. 

At long last, McGonagall announced it was time for them to head out to the grounds. The Third Task would be on the Quidditch pitch. They found their seats in the stands and waited; the Weasley twins were taking bets. Hermione squeezed her hands together and reminded herself that Viktor would be fine.

She sat impatiently through the long-winded explanation of how the Third Task would be run. Potter and Diggory, tied in the lead with 85 points, were the first in. A few minutes later, Viktor entered. Delacour entered last.

The hedges were easily thirty feet high; the champions couldn’t see over them. The people in the stands, however, could. They sucked in a breath as one when Delacour found an acromantula, and cheered together when she triumphed. Diggory successfully passed a hippogriff. Viktor passed through a Red Cap’s swamp. And Potter…

Potter hadn’t reached any obstacles at all.

They settled in to wait. Viktor ran along the outside wall, passing one of the adults with a bright star on his hat to mark him as a patroller. Neither of them saw the other, eyesight blocked by the hedge.

Around the next turn, Viktor and Delacour ran into each other. Delacour fell down; taller and broader, Viktor remained standing. Hermione expected him to reach down and offer a hand, but instead, Viktor pointed his wand at her and said something that had her screams reaching the audience in the stands.

There was nothing in the rules about harming competitors; Hermione just hadn’t thought any of them would stoop that low. How could she have been so wrong about him?

Viktor continued on, taking a path that would intersect with Diggory’s. When they met, Viktor cursed him, and Diggory’s screams were the ones to reach them this time. Potter started running back and forth, then finally burned a hole in the hedge and knocked Viktor unconscious. They sent up red sparks and continued on.

Hagrid forced his way through the hedges until he found Viktor and slung him over a shoulder to carry him out. The hedges didn’t seem to affect him at all, nor he the hedges.

Hermione watched the rest of the Third Task, though her heart wasn’t really in it. The only one she actually cared about was currently unconscious, and it was going to be a Hogwarts victory anyway.

Even so, when the Cup flared brightly and disappeared with Potter and Diggory, she was no less surprised than the other spectators. Dumbledore, voice magically magnified, told them they would announce the final scores at breakfast tomorrow. Hagrid carried Viktor and Delacour inside as some of the crowd decided to leave. Hermione was among them: she had to talk to Viktor.

He was awake when she got to the hospital wing. “Er-moniny,” he croaked when he saw her. Pomfrey glanced over from where she was tending an unconscious Delacour, apparently decided Hermione needed no attention, and promptly ignored her.

“‘E was under the Imperius,” Hagrid informed her.

Hermione sucked in a breath. “Do they know who…?”

“No.” He patted her shoulder, nearly knocking her down. “I’m off.”

She dropped into the chair next to Viktor’s bed. “Are you alright?”

“Been better,” he said honestly. “Who vun?”

“No idea,” Hermione said. “Potter and Diggory grabbed the Cup together, but it disappeared and no one has any idea where it went. Well, maybe Dumbledore, but he’s not saying.” She grabbed Viktor’s hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back

They sat in silence for quite a while. Hermione didn’t know what to say to make him feel better. Eventually, lulled by the quiet and Viktor’s even breathing, she fell asleep by the side of his bed.

She woke to the sound of voices. She smothered a yawn and made herself sit up; looking at her watch, she found it past midnight. She quietly waved a noise barrier around Viktor - and, after a second’s thought, Delacour - to prevent them from being disturbed and shamelessly eavesdropped. A group of redheads were alternately pleading and demanding to know where Harry Potter was.

The door opened. Potter, Dumbledore, and a gigantic black dog entered the hospital wing. The woman of the group shrieked, “Harry! Oh, Harry!” and started to run towards him.

Dumbledore neatly blocked her. “Molly,” he said, “please listen to me for a moment. Harry has been through a terrible ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me. What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If he would like you all to stay with him, you may do so. But I do not want you questioning him until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this evening.”

The woman nodded. She turned to the other redheads - Hermione realized one of them was Ron Weasley - and said, “Did you hear? He needs quiet!”

“Headmaster,” Pomfrey said,” may I ask what-?”

“This dog will be remaining with Harry,” Dumbledore said simply. “I assure you he is extremely well trained. Harry, I will be back to see you as soon as I have met with Fudge. I would like you to remain here tomorrow until I have spoken to the school.”

“Is he okay?” Potter asked, looking to a bed on the end. Hermione followed his gaze and, with a jolt, recognized Moody.

“He’ll be fine,” Pomfrey said, handing him pajamas as she shepherded him to a bed. She drew the curtains around him and bustled back to her office. After just a few minutes, during which the redheads and the dog rounded the curtain, she bustled back out with a goblet and a vial of purple potion.

When Pomfrey emerged, she glanced over and did a double-take when she saw Hermione awake. She came over. “You can take a bed if you’re going to stay,” she said, sounding tired.

Hermione shook her head. “I’d rather stay here.”

“Stubborn girl,” she muttered, but there was no heat and it sounded almost fond. She waved her wand and a blanket came soaring out of the linen closet at the end of the room. It nearly hit Hermione in the face before she caught it. “At least stay warm,” Pomfrey ordered, and returned to her office. Hermione smiled, settled the blanket around her shoulders, and went back to sleep.

Not long after, shouting woke her. She stood, blanket sliding to pool in the chair, and raised her wand in the hand Viktor wasn’t clutching.

“Regrettable,” a man was saying, “but all the same, Minerva-”

“You should never have brought it inside the school!” McGonagall yelled. After so long at school, Hermione could recognize her voice even an octave high from anger. “When Dumbledore finds out-”

The doors to the hospital wing burst open. The curtains around Potter’s bed opened as an unfamiliar man came striding up the wing, Snape and McGonagall behind him. McGonagall looked angrier than Hermione had ever seen her.

“Where’s Dumbledore?” the man demanded of the redheaded woman.

“He’s not here,” she snapped. “This is a hospital wing, Minister, don’t you think you’d do better to-”

The door opened. “What has happened?” Dumbledore demanded as he came forward to meet the cluster of people. “Why are you disturbing these people? Minerva, I’m surprised at you - I asked you to stand guard over Barty Crouch-”

McGonagall interrupted him. “There is no need to stand guard over him anymore, Dumbledore! The Minister has seen to that!”

"When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the Death Eater responsible for tonight's events," said Snape, “he seemed to feel his personal safety was in question. He insisted on summoning a dementor to accompany him into the castle. He brought it up to the office where Barty Crouch-"

"I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore!" McGonagall yelled. "I told him you would never allow dementors to set foot inside the castle, but -"

"My dear woman!" roared Fudge, who was nearly apoplectic with rage. "As Minister of Magic, it is my decision whether I wish to bring protection with me when interviewing a possibly dangerous-"

"The moment that - that thing entered the room," she screamed, pointing at Fudge, trembling all over, "it swooped down on Crouch and - and -"

Hermione’s stomach dropped. The dementor must have given Crouch the Kiss and sucked his soul out through his mouth. He was worse than dead.

"By all accounts, he is no loss!" said Fudge. "It seems he has been responsible for several deaths."

"But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius," said Dumbledore, less than patient. "He cannot give evidence about why he killed those people."

"Why he killed them? Well, that's no mystery, is it? He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who's instructions!"

"Lord Voldemort _was_ giving him instructions, Cornelius," Dumbledore said. "Those people’s deaths were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has been restored to his body."

Blinking, Fudge stared back at Dumbledore as if he couldn't quite believe what he had just heard. He began to sputter, still staring. "You-Know-Who...returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore..."

"As Minerva and Severus have doubtless told you," said Dumbledore, "we heard Barty Crouch confess. Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort - learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkins - went to free him from his father and used him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you. Crouch has helped Voldemort to return."

"See here, Dumbledore," said Fudge, a slight smile dawning on his face, "you - you can't seriously believe that You-Know-Who - back? Come now, come now...certainly, Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon You-Know-Who's orders - but to take the word of a lunatic like that, Dumbledore..."

"When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he was transported straight to Voldemort," said Dumbledore steadily. "He witnessed Lord Voldemort's rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to my office. I am afraid I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight."

Fudge glanced at Harry, then looked back at Dumbledore, and said, "You are - er - prepared to take Harry's word on this, are you, Dumbledore?"

The dog growled. His hackles were raised, and he was baring his teeth at Fudge.

"Certainly, I believe Harry," said Dumbledore. His face was now tinged with anger. "I heard Crouch's confession, and I heard Harry's account of what happened after he touched the Triwizard Cup; the two stories make sense, they explain everything that has happened since Bertha Jorkins disappeared last summer."

"You are prepared to believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, on the word of a lunatic murderer, and a boy who...well..."

"You've been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr. Fudge," Potter said quietly.

The redheads all jumped. None of them had realized that Harry was awake.

Fudge reddened slightly. "And if I have?" he said defiantly, looking at Dumbledore. "If I have discovered that you've been keeping certain facts about the boy very quiet? A Parselmouth, eh? And having funny turns all over the place -"

"I assume that you are referring to the pains Harry has been experiencing in his scar?" said Dumbledore coolly.

"You admit that he has been having these pains, then?" said Fudge quickly. "Headaches? Nightmares? Possibly - hallucinations?"

"Listen to me, Cornelius," said Dumbledore, taking a step toward Fudge. He seemed to suddenly grow in power, and Hermione had to fight not to cringe away. "Harry is as sane as you or I. That scar upon his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it hurts him when Lord Voldemort is close by, or feeling particularly murderous."

"You'll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I've never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before...."

"Look, I saw Voldemort come back!" Potter shouted. He tried to get out of bed again, but the woman forced him back. "I saw the Death Eaters! I can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy -"

Snape made a sudden movement.

"Malfoy was cleared!" said Fudge, visibly affronted. "A very old family - donations to excellent causes -"

"Macnair!" Potter continued.

"Also cleared! Now working for the Ministry!"

"Avery - Nott - Crabbe - Goyle -"

"You are merely repeating the names of those who were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years ago!" said Fudge angrily. "You could have found those names in old reports of the trials! For heaven’s sake, Dumbledore - the boy was full of some crackpot story at the end of last year too - his tales are getting taller, and you're still swallowing them - the boy can talk to snakes, Dumbledore, and you still think he's trustworthy?"

"You fool!" Professor McGonagall cried. "Cedric Diggory! Mr. Crouch! These deaths were not the random work of a lunatic!"

Hermione’s stomach dropped. Diggory was _dead?_ She didn’t know who Crouch was, but Diggory was a _student._

"I see no evidence to the contrary!" screamed Fudge, his face purpling. "It seems to me that you are all determined to start a panic that will destabilize everything we have worked for these last thirteen years!"

Hermione clenched her fists. Snape’s warning from all those months ago, that learning to defend herself would be a good move to make; how he’d given up so much of his time to help her with Occlumency; Flitwick’s time to teach her defense. All of that came together to make a less-than-pretty picture of the future.

"Voldemort has returned," Dumbledore repeated. "If you accept that fact straightaway. Fudge, and take the necessary measures, we may still be able to save the situation. The first and most essential step is to remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors -"

"Preposterous!" shouted Fudge again. "Remove the dementors? I'd be kicked out of office for suggesting it! Half of us only feel safe in our beds at night because we know the dementors are standing guard at Azkaban!"

"The rest of us sleep less soundly in our beds, Cornelius, knowing that you have put Lord Voldemort's most dangerous supporters in the care of creatures who will join him the instant he asks them!" said Dumbledore. "They will not remain loyal to you, Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers and their pleasures than you can! With the dementors behind him, and his old supporters returned to him, you will be hard-pressed to stop him regaining the sort of power he had thirteen years ago! The second step you must take - and at once - is to send envoys to the giants."

"Envoys to the giants?" Fudge shrieked. "What madness is this?"

"Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before it is too late," said Dumbledore, "or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before, that he alone among wizards will give them their rights and their freedom!"

"You - you cannot be serious!" Fudge gasped, shaking his head and retreating further from Dumbledore. "If the magical community got wind that I had approached the giants - people hate them, Dumbledore - end of my career -"

"You are blinded," said Dumbledore, his voice rising now, "by the love of the office you hold, Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you always have done, on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be! Your dementor has just destroyed the last remaining member of a pure-blood family as old as any - and see what that man chose to make of his life! I tell you now- take the steps I have suggested, and you will be remembered, in office or out, as one of the bravest and greatest Ministers of Magic we have ever known. Fail to act - and history will remember you as the man who stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a second chance to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!"

"Insane," whispered Fudge, still backing away. "Mad..."

Madam Pomfrey was standing frozen at the foot of Harry's bed, her hands over her mouth. The redheaded woman - whom Hermione belatedly realized had to be the Weasley matriarch - was still standing over Potter, her hand on his shoulder to prevent him from rising. Ron and the other redhead - probably one of his thousand brothers - were staring at Fudge.

"If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you as far as this, Cornelius," said Dumbledore, "we have reached a parting of the ways. You must act as you see fit. And I - I shall act as I see fit."

"Now, see here, Dumbledore," Fudge said, waving a threatening finger. "I've given you free rein, always. I've had a lot of respect for you. I might not have agreed with some of your decisions, but I've kept quiet. There aren't many who'd have let you hire werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach your students without reference to the Ministry. But if you're going to work against me -"

"The only one against whom I intend to work," said Dumbledore, "is Lord Voldemort. If you are against him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side."

It seemed Fudge could think of no answer to this. He rocked backward and forward on his small feet for a moment and spun his bowler hat in his hands. Finally, he said, with a hint of a plea in his voice, "He can't be back, Dumbledore, he just can't be..."

Snape strode forward, past Dumbledore, pulling up the left sleeve of his robes as he went. He stuck out his forearm and showed it to Fudge, who recoiled. "There," he said harshly. "There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate, instantly, at his side. This Mark has been growing clearer all year. Karkaroff's too. Why do you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the Mark burn. We both knew he had returned. Karkaroff fears the Dark Lord's vengeance. He betrayed too many of his fellow Death Eaters to be sure of a welcome back into the fold."

Fudge stepped back from Snape too. He was shaking his head. He did not seem to have taken in a word Snape had said. He stared, apparently repelled by the ugly mark on Snape's arm, then looked up at Dumbledore and whispered, "I don't know what you and your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have heard enough. I have no more to add. I will be in touch with you tomorrow, Dumbledore, to discuss the running of this school. I must return to the Ministry."

He had almost reached the door when he paused. He turned around, strode back down the dormitory, and stopped at Potter’s bed.

"Your winnings," he said shortly, taking a large bag out of his pocket and dropping it onto Harry's bedside table. "One thousand Galleons. There should have been a presentation ceremony, but under the circumstances..."

He crammed his bowler hat onto his head and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The moment he had disappeared, Dumbledore turned to look at the group around Potter's bed.

"There is work to be done," he said. "Molly...am I right in thinking that I can count on you and Arthur?"

"Of course you can," said Mrs. Weasley. She was white to the lips, but she looked resolute. "We know what Fudge is. It's Arthur's fondness for Muggles that has held him back at the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride."

"Then I need to send a message to Arthur," said Dumbledore. "All those that we can persuade of the truth must be notified immediately, and he is well placed to contact those at the Ministry who are not as shortsighted as Cornelius."

"I'll go to Dad," said the unfamiliar Weasley, standing up. "I'll go now."

"Excellent," said Dumbledore. "Tell him what has happened. Tell him I will be in direct contact with him shortly. He will need to be discreet, however. If Fudge thinks I am interfering at the Ministry -"

"Leave it to me.” He clapped a hand on Potter's shoulder, kissed his mother on the cheek, pulled on his cloak, and strode quickly from the room.

"Minerva," said Dumbledore, turning to Professor McGonagall, "I want to see Hagrid in my office as soon as possible. Also - if she will consent to come - Madame Maxime."

Professor McGonagall nodded and left without a word.

"Poppy," Dumbledore said to Madam Pomfrey, "would you be very kind and go down to Professor Moody's office, where I think you will find a house-elf called Winky in considerable distress? Do what you can for her, and take her back to the kitchens. I think Dobby will look after her for us."

"Very - very well," said Madam Pomfrey, looking startled, and she too left.

“Miss Granger,” he said, and Hermione jumped. “Dare I ask how Miss Delacour and Mr. Krum are still asleep?”

“Silencing Charm.”

He nodded. “Well done. May I ask your opinion on the matter?”

“If Diggory’s dead,” she said slowly, “I suppose You-Know-Who being back makes more sense than anything else.”

He nodded calmly. "And now," he said, "it is time for two of our number to recognize each other for what they are. Sirius...if you could resume your usual form."

The great black dog looked up at Dumbledore, then, in an instant, turned back into a man. Mrs. Weasley screamed and leapt back from the bed.

"Sirius Black!" she shrieked, pointing at him. Hearing the name, Hermione raised her wand, but held off; Dumbledore had known, so Dumbledore had a reason for allowing him into the school.

"Mum, shut up!" Ron yelled. "It's okay!"

Snape had not yelled or jumped backward, but the look on his face was one of mingled fury and horror. "Him!" he snarled, staring at Black, whose face showed equal dislike. "What is he doing here?"

"He is here at my invitation," said Dumbledore, looking between them, "as are you, Severus. I trust you both. It is time for you to lay aside your old differences and trust each other. I will settle, in the short term, for a lack of open hostility. You will shake hands. You are on the same side now. Time is short, and unless the few of us who know the truth do not stand united, there is no hope for any us.

Very slowly - but still glaring at each other as though each wished the other nothing but ill - Sirius and Snape moved toward each other and shook hands. They let go extremely quickly.

"That will do to be going on with," said Dumbledore, stepping between them once more. "Now I have work for each of you. Fudge's attitude, though not unexpected, changes everything. Sirius, I need you to set off at once. You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher - the old crowd. Lie low at Lupin's for a while; I will contact you there."

"But -" said Potter.

"You'll see me very soon, Harry," said Black, turning to him. "I promise you. But I must do what I can, you understand, don't you?"

"Yeah," said Potter. "Yeah...of course I do."

Black grasped his hand briefly, nodded to Dumbledore, transformed again into the black dog, and ran the length of the room to the door, whose handle he turned with a paw. Then he was gone.

"Severus," said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, "you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready...if you are prepared..."

"I am," said Snape.

"Then good luck," said Dumbledore, and they watched as Snape swept wordlessly after Sirius.

It was several minutes before Dumbledore spoke again. "I must go downstairs," he said finally. "I must see to the Diggorys. Harry - take the rest of your potion. I will see all of you later."

There was another long silence, broken by Mrs. Weasley saying, "You've got to take the rest of your potion. Harry. You have a good long sleep. Try and think about something else for a while...think about what you're going to buy with your winnings!"

"I don't want that gold," said Potter in an expressionless voice. "You have it. Anyone can have it. I shouldn't have won it. It should've been Cedric's."

"It wasn't your fault. Harry," Mrs. Weasley whispered.

"I told him to take the cup with me," said Potter.

Mrs. Weasley set the potion down on the bedside cabinet, bent down, and hugged him. She broke away after a long moment and wiped her eyes. "Your potion, Harry.”

After some time, Hermione cleared her throat. “Erm...are you Mrs. Weasley?”

“I am, dear,” she said absently, still focused on Potter. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Hermione Granger.”

“She’s the one who cursed me in Potions,” her son said sullenly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “With pinkeye, which I knew Pomfrey had plenty of remedy for. Snape needed an excuse to give me detention.”

“So you cursed me?!”

“I cursed whoever stood up for me,” Hermione corrected. “Snape knew that if he insulted me for being a Mudblood, _one_ of you Gryffindors would take the bait. Besides, it’s not like you’ve never cursed me.”

Neither Weasley had anything to say to that.


	17. Goodbye, Hermione Granger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morally-grey Dumbledore makes his first major appearance in this chapter.

Over the next month, news trickled in. Karkaroff had fled, hiding from his former master. Viktor screamed and yelled about being taught by a Death Eater. Hermione sat and listened and calmed him down.

The Ministry refused to believe You-Know-Who was back. Rita Skeeter published an article the day after the Third Task calling Potter unbalanced, immature, attention-seeking, manipulative, crazy - everything she could think of to discredit him. 

In the Slytherin common room, it was common knowledge that not only was the Dark Lord back, but the graduating Slytherins would be joining his ranks come July. Most Slytherins had parents who had been Death Eaters in the last war, and were looking forward to joining him when they had the opportunity. Those who didn’t support him kept quiet, afraid of retribution. Hermione felt more alone than ever. She’d thought Parkinson and Bulstrode had come to tolerate her, at the very least, but both were excited for the Dark Lord’s return. Hermione wished she’d pretended to be a half-blood for the last four years; she was the only openly Mudblood Slytherin, and she could feel the weight of it as never before.

A week before the end of term, Dumbledore called her to his office. He looked tired when he admitted her to his office.

“Lemon drop?” he offered, waving her into a seat.

“No, thank you, Professor,” she said.

“Very well. I am pleased to say we have found suitable guardianship for you over the summer.” He smiled. “On paper, your guardian will be Arabella Figg, a Squib. I trust you remember her from our conversations last year?”

Hermione’s mind scrambled madly. “She was the one I was supposed to stay with last summer?”

“Indeed.”

“You said ‘on paper’.”

“I did.” Dumbledore grew serious. “Miss Granger, I am well aware you have seen and experienced much of the world already. You are not required to say yes to me, keep that in mind.”

Hermione nodded, heart thumping. Where was he going with this? She had a bad feeling.

“What I would like from you,” he said slowly, “is this. Over the summer, I would like you to pose as a half-blood sympathetic to the Dark Lord’s cause.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Everyone knows I’m a Mudblood,” she said before she could stop herself.

Dumbledore nodded gravely. “Which is why you will be disguised.”

“I’m - I’m fifteen,” she said. “People will ask about my House at Hogwarts.”

“A fake accent, an Aging Potion, and school records can place you at Durmstrang.”

“You really want me to do this, don’t you?”

“The alternative is to spend the summer with Mrs. Figg - who is a pleasant woman, but extremely fond of her twenty-three cats.”

“Why me? Surely you have others who can do this.”

“I don’t,” he said simply. “We are very small, and the Ministry denying Lord Voldemort’s return is preventing recruitment efforts.” He leaned forward. “I know Professor Snape has been teaching you Occlumency, and Professor Flitwick has been working with you on dueling. You are in a unique position to help us, Hermione. Will you do it?”

She swallowed. The way he was describing it….

“I’m in.”

He beamed. “Excellent! I would suggest you talk to Mr. Krum about life at Durmstrang under Professor Karkaroff. I shall talk to Professors Flitwick and Snape about making sure you are prepared. Do you have any questions?”

She shook her head.

“Excellent. Then why don’t you go join Mr. Krum for one of your walks around the lake?” His eyes twinkled at her.

She found herself smiling at him.

Viktor reacted badly. “He asked you to do _what?_ ” he yelled, startling a flock of birds into flight.

“Spy on the Death Eaters,” she repeated. “That’s why I need you to tell me things about Durmstrang - and Bulgaria, come to think of it - that only a student would know.”

He told her, but he was very vocally unhappy. He kissed her cheek rather than her lips after dinner.

Over the next week, Hermione spent most of her free time with Snape, honing her Occlumency shields, or Flitwick, focusing on defense. Both of her professors tried to talk her out of it, but somehow, when she tried to talk to Dumbledore about backing out, she couldn’t do it. She saw Dumbledore more often than she had before; three times a week, he lifted the Apparition wards in his office and taught her both background information on the Death Eaters and how to Apparate in case of emergency.

When she wasn’t with them or in class, she was with Viktor, learning about Durmstrang and Bulgaria. She wasn’t going to be able to visit him over the summer as half-planned, which she regretted.

Two days before the end of term, when Flitwick and Snape were busy marking, she and Viktor sat on the shore of the lake, watching the Giant Squid swim around. Hermione was half-laying on Viktor.

“Are you scared?” Viktor asked at last.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “It’s going to be...interesting. Dumbledore and Snape have been working on implanting false memories so I won’t be as likely to bugger it all up, but...these people hate me, and everyone like me. If they find out who I am….”

“Don’t do it,” Viktor said. “Tell Dumbledore you changed your mind.”

Hermione sighed sadly. “I’ve tried. Every time he just smiles and tells me how proud he is of me for taking this risk, and I - I just can’t.”

Viktor was silent for a minute. “Then you must be - ah - both feet in.”

“What?”

“Both feet in, yes? That is the expression? If you are half-in, you vill not make it.”

After a moment’s reflection, she said, “I see what you mean.”

“Be careful,” Viktor said for the hundredth time, and kissed the top of her head.

She snuggled into him. The Giant Squid went past the Durmstrang ship, and a thought occurred to her. “How are you getting home without Karkaroff?”

“Easily. He stayed in his cabin and left us to sail here. Ve vill not miss him, now that he is gone.”

Hermione turned her face up and kissed him. It slowly became more heated, until their mouths were open. Hermione swatted down the voice in her head calling her a whore and just let herself enjoy it.

“What have we here?” someone said from behind them. Hermione jerked back as if stung and looked behind them to see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. “Mudblood snogging a Quidditch hero, eh? What do you see in her, Krum?”

Hermione stood. “Back off, Malfoy.”

Krum also stood. “You should leave.”

Malfoy sneered. “Fine. Go ahead and fuck the Mudblood, she’s a big enough slag for it-”

Hermione cut him off with a resounding slap. Malfoy staggered back, grabbing his cheek and gaping at her.

“What is your problem?” Hermione yelled.

“You’ll pay for that, Granger,” Malfoy snarled, and drew his wand.

“She vill not,” Krum snapped, pointing his own wand at Malfoy. Hermione raised hers as well, and then Crabbe and Goyle. For a long moment, they stood there, frozen in a tableau of threatened violence.

“Come on,” Malfoy muttered to Crabbe and Goyle, and they left.

Hermione was shaking with rage. Krum slowly pushed her wand arm down when they were out of view. “I did not know you had it in you,” he said.

Hermione glowered. “Malfoy’s an arse.”

Viktor now just looked amused. “So you slap him?”

“He had it coming.”

“I have not heard of a slag before. Vat is it?”

“A prostitute,” Hermione spat.

“Ah.” Viktor nodded slowly. “You may vish to control your temper before you do - vat you are doing this summer.”

Hermione sighed and consciously relaxed. “I know,” she said miserably, and turned to bury her head in his chest. In his arms was the only place she’d ever felt truly safe.

Viktor and Delacour met them outside the castle steps on 3 July. Viktor bid farewell to Potter, and then returned to her side. “Goodbye, Er-moniny,” he said sadly, and kissed her deeply until the thestral-drawn carriages arrived to take them to the train.

“I’ll write when I can,” she promised him, and with one last kiss, she climbed into the carriage.


	18. Hello, Ivana Pavlova

Auror Tonks met her at the platform. “I told the Ministry I’d escort you to Mrs. Figg’s,” she said quietly. “Here - read and memorize.” She slipped Hermione a piece of paper.

She read it. In Dumbledore’s unmistakable hand was written _The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

“Got it?” Tonks asked. Hermione nodded. “Good - got your trunk? - excellent, then. We’re going to Apparate out. Have you ever Side-Alonged?” Hermione shook her head this time. “Hold on tight, and try not to throw up when we land.”

Tonks grabbed Hermione’s arm in a grip tight enough to bruise, and a moment later Hermione felt like she was being squeezed through a long, thin tube. The pressure was overwhelming - worse than when she Apparated herself, those few times she’d managed it inside Dumbledore’s office. Just when Hermione was convinced her ribs would crack, it stopped abruptly. Hermione sucked in a breath and coughed weakly.

“Takes some getting used to,” Tonks said. “Come along, then.”

Hermione glanced around. They were standing on a dilapidated porch in a cul-de-sac of identical run-down houses. Paint was peeling off the door Tonks was opening.

“Quiet, now,” Tonks whispered, “we don’t want to wake up Mrs. Black.”

“Who’s Mrs. Black?” she whispered back.

Tonks tripped coming in the door and dragged an umbrella stand down with her. Curtains on the wall flew open and a portrait of an old woman in curlers started screaming, “MUDBLOODS AND FILTH, BESMIRCHING THE HOUSE OF MY ANCESTORS, OUT! OUT, ALL OF YOU, HOW DARE YOU TRESPASS ONTO THE MOST NOBLE AND ANCIENT HOUSE OF BL-”

“SHUT UP, YOU OLD BAT!” a man roared, racing into the hall.

“YOU!” she shrieked at him, eyes rolling in her head. “BLOOD TRAITOR, WORTHLESS, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING -”

The man managed to close the curtains again, and she fell silent. Panting, he turned to face them. “Tonks,” he said, sounding fondly exasperated.

“Sorry!” She dragged the umbrella stand upright - was it made from a troll’s foot? “I brought Granger.”

Black turned to her. “Don’t think we’ve met yet. Sirius Black, not a murderer.”

“I heard,” Hermione said dryly. “Hermione Granger.”

Black cocked his head. “You look awfully young.”

“She’s fifteen,” Tonks said.

Black looked startled. “Fifteen! And Dumbledore wants her to-?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “He does.”

Black shook his head. “Well, come on down to the kitchen, I suppose. We can talk there.”

Hermione and Tonks followed him down a flight of stairs and through a heavy wooden door. The kitchen had very obviously not been updated in a long time; the stove looked to be from the 19th century at the very latest. In the middle of the room was a long wooden table, worn smooth from years of use. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling. Knife blocks dotted the grungy countertops. 

“Hermione Granger’s here,” Black announced.

A very familiar man looked up from the table. “Hermione!” he said, eyes crinkling in a smile.

“Professor Lupin!”

“Not your professor anymore,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“That spy Dumbledore said was coming?” Black said sourly. “This is her.”

Lupin’s face fell. “Is he mad? You’re fifteen!”

“That’s what I said,” Hermione said dryly. “Apparently, an Aging Potion will fix that.”

Lupin shook his head. “You’ve met Alastor Moody, correct?”

Hermione nodded at the other man. “Good to see you again, Professor.”

“I don’t know about ‘Professor’,” he said, “I never got around to much teaching. Flitwick says he’s been teaching you dueling?” Hermione nodded. “Snape and Dumbledore made fake memories for you. Pensieve’s on the counter. Ever used one?”

“No,” Hermione said, looking for the Pensieve. 

“I’ll go with you, then,” Lupin said, standing. “It can be disorienting, the first time.”

“Once you come out, the memories will go into your head,” Moody said. “Snape’s putting them in.”

“Ready?” Lupin asked, standing by a large stone cauldron.

“Sure,” she said, joining him. “How does this work?”

Lupin took her hand and pushed it beneath the surface of the silvery, gaseous liquid filling the cauldron. Hermione had a brief feeling of being yanked along by the wrist, and then she jerked to a stop.  
***  
When they had viewed all of the memories, Lupin talked her through getting out of the Pensieve. She snapped back into her own body and nearly staggered.

“You were right,” she told Lupin, “that _was_ disorienting.”

“It usually is,” a familiar voice said from the table, and Hermione whirled around.

“Professor Snape!” she said.

“Hello again, Miss Granger,” he said. “I suppose you’ve been filled in on the plan?”

“You’ll be putting those memories in, right?”

Snape glared at Moody. “It’s a bit more complicated.” Quickly and succinctly, he laid it out: the Occlumency shields they’d been building could be used to store a separate persona, and it was there the memories would be placed. They would be blended with a certain amount of her own memories, to prevent her from rejecting them. She’d have to always be Occluding, or she’d risk being found out.

Dumbledore came in just as Snape was finishing. “We have found you a flat in Bristol,” he said. “It rents solely to magical folk. It is also the home of several half-blood supporters of the Dark Lord, Macnair among them. He’s not very bright” - his eyes twinkled - “so he should be easy to get in with.”

“Albus,” Snape said, “I still object to this. She is a _child._ ”

“You know as well as I, Severus, that Miss Granger is uniquely capable of handling herself.”

Snape nearly snarled. “Because she has no fit guardian? Because of what her parents put her through? Because she’s used to defending herself from the cruelty of her year-mates - which you’re fully aware of and have done nothing to stop? Because-”

“All of that and more,” Dumbledore said, a warning note in his voice.

“Dumbledore,” Black said, “she’s fifteen.”

“She is,” Dumbledore agreed. “I would not ask this of her if I had another choice.”

“If she was a Gryffindor,” Snape said, “you wouldn’t have even considered it.”

Hermione froze. She hadn’t even thought of that, but now that it had been pointed out, it was _so obvious._

“A Gryffindor would not be able to handle this,” Dumbledore said, voice steely. “Regardless of your feelings on the matter, Miss Granger has agreed to help us, and help us she will. Now, MIss Granger” - he turned to her, pointedly ending the objections - “Tonks and Moody will accompany you to your flat the first time, to explain the security to you. There is an Apparition point in the lobby, where you will arrive.” He pulled a necklace from his pocket. “In an emergency, this is a Portkey that will bring you back here. To activate it, you must simply say, ‘Absquatulate’.”

“Absquatulate?”

“Indeed.” He smiled and handed it to her. “You will land here in the kitchen. This” - he handed her a mirror - “can be used to talk to communicate with its partner, which currently is just over the kitchen sink. The word to activate it is blatherskite.”

“Blatherskite,” she repeated. The mirror over the sink chimed loudly, and her own face looked out at them. Looking down at the mirror in her hand, she could see the view from the sink mirror.

“To stop the call, say ‘end’.”

“End,” she said, and she was looking at silvery glass once more.

“So that’s the flat, emergencies...ah, yes. Over the summer, you will work at Florean Fortescue’s, in Diagon Alley.” He smiled benignly at her.

“With those out of the way,” Dumbledore continued, “we must decide why a half-blood such as you would come to hate Muggles and Muggle-borns. The simplest answer is the way you were treated as a child. I would like that to be the anchor memory for the implanted persona.”

Hermione jerked. “You want - that - to be why…?”

“I can hardly think of a better reason,” Dumbledore said calmly. Behind him, Snape looked murderous. Moody and Black looked mildly curious; Tonks and Lupin just seemed sad. “Can you?”

She slumped. “No,” she said quietly.

Dumbledore nodded. “Then I would like you to put those memories in the Pensieve, as well. Once they are in and have been combined, Severus can begin implanting the persona of Ivana Pavlova.”

“How do I put memories in a Pensieve?”

“Think of the memory you wish to remove and place your wand to your temple,” Dumbledore said. “There is no incantation.”

Hermione forced herself to think of her very first time working. It wasn’t hard to wish it gone, and a moment later, she drew her wand away and took with it a string of gaseous liquid that, with a tap, fell into the Pensieve.

“You will need at least ten memories,” Snape said.

“Have you any questions?” Dumbledore asked her.

She shook her head.

“Very well, then. I’m off. Good luck, Miss Pavlova.” He smiled, turned, and vanished with a loud pop.

Hermione turned her attention to the memories. One by one, they fell in the Pensieve. Tonks and Moody talked quietly at the table. Snape stood beside her, watching her work.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said when the tenth memory was in. “You can always say no.”

Hermione smiled sadly. “You said that to me before, remember? I have just as much choice in this. I’m in too deep already, Professor.”

Snape sighed heavily. “If you die, I will be very upset with you,” he informed her, and stuck his wand into the Pensieve. He stirred, muttering under his breath in Greek and Latin. The memories began to solidify and dull from silver to grey, and then to a black goo. Abruptly they returned to their original form of floating silver liquid.

“They’ve mixed,” he said.

Tonks joined them. “All right, Hermione,” she said, “it’s time to change what you look like. We’re going for Eastern European, so it’s going to be the average of what we’ve got on them. Drink this” - she handed Hermione a lurid green potion - “and don’t flinch.”

Hermione downed the Aging Potion. She felt herself grow abruptly, gaining four inches. Her chest and hips ballooned, filling out her robes more than her fifteen-year-old body did. She could feel bones shifting. When it stopped, Tonks moved her wand over Hermione’s face, murmuring Greek. Nearly fifteen minutes later, she dropped her arm and held up a mirror.

Hermione examined herself. Her nose was thinner, her bottom lip fuller. Her hair was still frizzy, but looked both lighter and straighter. Her eyes were slightly larger, and had become a dark greenish-blue rather than her normal russet brown. A mole on her right cheek prevented her face from being eerily symmetrical.

Tonks handed her a bag. “Make-up kit,” she informed her. “No self-respecting adult witch goes without makeup. Use the cleanser every night.” She glanced at Snape. “I’m done.”

Snape nodded and said to Hermione, “Bring up your Occlumency shields and we’ll begin filling them with Pavlova.”

It was the work of a moment to Occlude her mind. She felt Snape enter and push her personal shields deeper, forcing her mind into a smaller piece of herself. Outside the shields she could feel him placing blocks of memories on the metaphorical floor for her to peruse at leisure. As long as she was Occluding this deeply, Ivana Pavlova would be her first instinct, and she’d react as Ivana would rather than Hermione.

“Throw up some basic Occlumency shields over that,” Snape ordered. Hermione fumbled and struggled with that, but she did eventually feel them go up. He withdrew from her mind as they formed. “Let’s test them,” he said, and dove into her mind. He probed the shields around Ivana and found them swirling with surface thoughts, Ivana’s worries - moving to a new country, finding a job, earning enough money to provide for herself. He pushed deeper, swatting her basic shields out of the way, and ended up inside Ivana herself. The shields around Hermione seemed part of Ivana’s mind, so natural he could easily overlook them.

“You will be fine as long as the Dark Lord himself does not go inside your mind,” Snape informed her. “I expect you to continue practicing and shoring up your shields daily.”

“Of course,” she said. “Wait - the accent!”

Snape smirked. “That is being left to Moody.” He looked over her shoulder - even with her newfound height, he was still a half-foot taller than Hermione. “Ivana is in,” he said.

Moody grunted in acknowledgment.

Snape looked back down at her. “You can still back out.”

Hermione smiled. “I won’t. Thank you, Professor.”

“Of course. Be _careful._ ”

“I will be.”

”Get over here,” Moody growled. Hermione came to stand in front of him. He pointed his wand at her throat - she fought back a flinch - and growled, “ _Obyavyavamvi._ ” Something in her mouth shifted. “Tonks?”

“Already done,” she said brightly, and Hermione turned to see her eyes were now green and her hair was a dark auburn. Her face, which had been heart-shaped, was no square. “Your turn.”

Moody grumbled something, pointing his wand at his own face, and his features, too, changed. The only things that stayed the same were his magical eye - which he conjured an eyepatch for - and one of the scars across his face.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Pavlova, you ready for Side-Alonging?”

“Yes,” she said. “Good-bye, Professor Snape.”

“Be careful,” he said again, and then Moody’s hand was gripping her arm and they were hurtling through space before she could bid farewell to Black or Lupin.

They landed in a tiled lobby. Tonks appeared a moment later with a pop. They led Hermione to a door on the second floor. Moody nodded at her. “You’ll need to touch your wand to the door.”

Hermione did as she was told. A golden fog burst from the door and enveloped her for a moment before retreating.

“Making sure you are who’s on the lease,” Moody informed her. “You’re the only one who can open the door, now. Tap it again.”

Hermione tapped the door. It swung open silently.

The first room was a cozy sitting room, with a couch, a comfortable-looking chair in front of a desk, and overstuffed bookshelves. The desk drawers held parchment, quills, ink, and other various office supplies. Most of the books on the shelves were written in Bulgarian, Hermione saw when she looked at the covers.

“That accent spell also translates the Slavic languages into English,” Tonks said.

Hermione nodded and continued looking around. To the right was a smaller room with a small table and four chairs. Connected to the room was a kitchen, with a tall pantry, a set of shelves with permanent Cooling Charms, a sink, and an old-fashioned stove. The kitchen was stuffed with food and cooking implements.

Past the sitting room were two more rooms. The bathroom - which had a tub Tonks assured her would expand to fit her entire body - was to the right. To the left was a small bedroom, dominated by a queen-sized mattress. A walk-in closet was filled with robes.

By the window, though, was a tawny owl. It hooted when it saw her and flew over.

“Hey, Anastacia,” Tonks said affectionately, holding out a hand for the owl to perch on. “This is Ivana Pavlova. Ivana, Anastacia is all yours. Send a message at least every other day, or we’ll think something’s gone wrong.” Hermione nodded. “Owl pellets are in the closet.”

“You’ve got a subscription to the _Daily Prophet,_ prepaid,” Moody said. “Come in the closet for a moment.”

Hermione followed him in and watched as he pulled up a corner of the cupboard. “Floor safe,” he said. “Impervious to all spells. Combination is Hermione Granger’s birthday.”

“Are you all set?” Tonks asked when they rejoined her in the living room. She nodded. “Macnair’s in the flat across the hall. You can engineer a meeting, I’m sure. You start at Fortescue’s tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”

“Be careful,” Moody said. “Wait a week or two before approaching him. If you need anything, or have questions, get in touch.”

“He’s mad Dumbledore chose a teenager,” Tonks told her.

“No field experience and he’s throwing her in the deep end,” Moody grumbled.

“If you think you’re getting in too deep, we’ll pull you out,” Tonks told her. “Code your letters. You have family in London, so nobody will think twice of an owl heading there instead of Bulgaria.” She looked at Moody. “Am I forgetting anything?”

Moody scratched his head. “Order meetings are Fridays at seven.”

“Got it?” Tonks asked her. Hermione nodded her head. “Wotcher. We’re off, then. Take care of yourself.”

“Keep yourself Occluded,” Moody added.

They left. Hermione went into the bathroom, studied herself in the mirror, and muttered, “Hello, Ivana Pavlova.”


	19. Using Teenagers is a Bad Idea

Hermione slowly got into the swing of being Ivana Pavlova. She sent a letter off to London every other night, wary of missing check-in. She learned how to make sundaes at Florean’s. She saw some of her classmates coming and going with their parents. She kept a smile on her face no matter how nasty the customers got. On Friday night, she went to the Order meeting with nothing to report.

Ten days after she moved in, she and Macnair left their flats at the same time. Hermione faked tripping and fell right into him. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said, scrambling to her feet. “Here-” And she knelt down to help him pick up the files that had fallen out of his hands, making sure he got a look down her robes as she did.

“It’s fine,” Macnair said shortly.

“No, no, I - oh, I’m so sorry! How can I make it up to you?”

“It’s fine,” Macnair said again, straightening up with his files in his hands. His eyes caught on her low neckline.

Hermione handed over the files in hers. “Let me make you dinner,” she said. “To apologize.”

Macnair swallowed. “Okay,” he said, eyes still glued to her cleavage..

“Oh, where are my manners?” Hermione babbled on. “Ivana Pavlova. I just moved here from Bulgaria.”

“Walden Macnair.”

“Dinner, then? Tonight?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, no! My purse! It’s still inside - I’ll see you tonight? Seven?”

Not giving him a chance to respond, she hurried back inside her flat. Through the peephole, she saw him bemusedly shake his head and walk down the stairs to the Apparition point.

Macnair knocked on her door at seven o’clock exactly. Hermione pulled her Occlumency shields down firmly and answered. “Mr. Macnair!” she said happily. “Please, come in!”

“Thank you, Miss Pavlova,” he said politely.

“Oh, please. Ivana,” she insisted.

“Walden.”

“Walden, then.” She smiled at him. “Please, have a seat.”

She waited for him to choose a spot at the table to take one herself. A bottle of wine already sat on the table, alongside a ham, potatoes, and green beans. Walden served himself hearty portions and poured them each a glass of wine.

“So what do you do?” she asked him.

“I work for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures,” he said importantly. 

“That sounds fascinating. What does it involve?”

Walden spun tales about the Committee’s purpose for nearly forty minutes. Hermione murmured and nodded in all the right places to encourage him to continue. Finally he wound down.

“A shame Muggles don’t qualify, I suppose,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

“It is,” he agreed. She had expected him to ignore it, suspicious of gaining a new neighbor with similar views, but he didn’t seem to consider it strange. “Do they qualify in Bulgaria?”

“Unfortunately no,” she said sadly. 

“The MInistry here is just as spineless,” Macnair sneered. “Three years ago they tried to pass a law banning Muggle-baiting.”

“How awful!”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “If they’re dumb enough to fall for anything we do, they deserve it.”

“They deserve everything,” Hermione sneered. “Filthy beasts.”

That was all Macnair needed to let loose. Hermione egged on his rants about Muggles and Mudbloods, agreeing and always giving him a new topic to go on about. Partway through, she pulled out the dessert she’d made, casually mentioning she’d found a recipe for pie in a cookbook from Diagon Alley. Macnair demolished a full third.

Eventually, Macnair left. Hermione cleaned up - Dumbledore had removed the Trace from her a month before the end of school - and then showered, scrubbing herself raw.

Hermione invited him over again the next Thursday, and the Thursday after that. Each time Macnair grew more willing to talk about the problems Mudbloods presented to proper Wizarding society. After their third dinner, before Macnair left, he said, “Would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Tomorrow I visit my aunt in London. Will Saturday work?”

“Saturday works great,” he said, shoulders slumping in relief.

At the next day’s Order meeting, Hermione reported on Macnair, and how he had yet to share much in the way of plans but she was getting close. Snape gave her a sharp look but chose not to comment.

Tonks grabbed her when the meeting was over. “Next Monday they’re going to Mrs. Figg’s to check on how you’re settling in,” she said softly. “Get here Sunday night and we’ll take care of all the spells so everything looks fine when they go.”

Hermione saluted her. 

The next night, Hermione came back from Fortescue’s and immediately showered. Wrapped in a towel, she wandered into her closet and found a set of burgundy dress robes that should serve well for a - _date._ She was going on a date with a Death Eater.

Macnair picked her up at eight o’clock exactly. “You look good,” he said approvingly.

“So do you,” she answered, taking in his navy-blue robes. 

“We’ll be Apparating to the Leaky Cauldron,” he told her as they made their way to the Apparition point. “There’s a restaurant above the apothecary I believe you will enjoy.”

The restaurant turned out to specialize in food from Eastern Europe. Hermione feigned surprised delight and ordered purzhena chushka, a bell pepper stuffed with cheese and spices. Macnair ordered the same, as well as an expensive bottle of spiced mead. Macnair and Ivana talked quietly, enjoying each other’s company while Hermione drew back and let her alternate persona take the lead. She was careful not to drink more than two glasses of the wine, which was still more than she usually had over dinner. 

“So,” he said casually as he gestured for the check, “I have some friends I would like you to meet.”

“Do you?”

“Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. They’re very sympathetic to our cause.”

“I see,” Hermione said, heart sinking. Macnair was an idiot, so it was easy to fool him. But the Malfoys?

Night was falling as they left for home. Macnair kissed her outside their doors, putting his hand on her breast. When they broke apart, he said, “We should do this again. Wednesday?”

“Wednesday it is.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and returned to her flat. Inside, she let her Occlumency shields drop and became fully Hermione again. Macnair seemed to want more than she had been expecting to give. How far was she willing to go with him? How much could she avoid without arousing suspicion?

She still didn’t have an answer the next evening, when she returned to Grimmauld Place and crept down to the kitchen to wait for Tonks. She trod squarely on a piece of flesh-colored putty on her way, and she heard a cry from above. She looked up to see one of the twins rubbing his ear and hoisting up the other end of the putty. A moment later, an ear came past her.

She laughed. “Eavesdropping?”

“We _were_ ,” he grumbled.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell your mother.”

Arthur, Molly, and Bill Weasley were in the kitchen with Mundungus Fletcher, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Moody.

“Ivana!” Arthur said. “What brings you here?”

“I’m meeting Tonks here. You?”

“We’ve moved in,” he said, looking tired. “We could use a fresh pair of eyes over here, until Tonks arrives.”

Hermione moved to the table. “What’s the problem?”

“We’re looking for the best spot to put a guard on this door,” Moody said, tapping the building map in front of them.

“I still think right in front is the best place,” Bill said.

“Until someone walks in who can see through an Invisibility Cloak,” Moody pointed out. “In one of these rooms is better.”

“But we can’t get anyone into those rooms, Alastor,” Arthur said tiredly. “They lock automatically, and we can’t unlock them without the right wand.”

“There are ways around that,” Shacklebolt said thoughtfully. “They’re illegal, but they exist.”

“Yes, let’s use _illegal magic_ in the _Ministry of Magic_ ,” Bill said sarcastically. 

Hermione studied the map. The door in question was at the end of a long hallway without intersections. There was nowhere to hide, which was probably why they kept important things behind it: it was easy to guard, provided the guard was supposed to be there.

“Seeing anything new?” Fletcher asked her.

Hermione shook her head. “Those are the only two options I’m seeing.”

There was a loud bang from the Entrance Hall. “Tonks,” Shacklebolt said, sighing.

“I’ll deal with Mrs. Black,” Bill said, hurrying out to close the curtains on the portrait that was now screaming epithets at them all.

“Ivana, have you eaten yet?” Molly asked.

“No.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Erm.” Ivana glanced at her watch. “I’m not sure when Tonks wants to leave.”

“Tonks is staying,” Moody said.

“Well, then. I would love to stay. Would you like help, Molly?”

“No, dear, I’ve got it. You look exhausted.”

Bill returned, Tonks in tow. “Severus has an idea,” Tonks told her.

“What would that be?”

Tonks produced a large bottle. “Polyjuice variant,” she announced. “Should let you transform back into yourself, and when it wears off, you’ll become Ivana Pavlova again.”

“Ooh,” Hermione said, taking the vial. “Any idea how he did that?”

“No. He did say to tell you that you’re the test subject, and so we may need to spell you again.”

“Great. Someone take a picture so we know what I look like now.”

“You’re not really Ivana?” Arthur asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Dumbledore’s idea. Not supposed to tell anyone who I am unless they were there to help me change.”

“Hmph,” Moody said. “Tonks, any ideas on guarding this door?”

Debate lasted until dinner was ready, at which point Molly called down her brood and Arthur cleaned off the table. Black and Lupin appeared with them. Dinner passed pleasantly enough, Hermione enjoying being able to relax and be herself instead of Ivana. After a month, though, Ivana had crept into Hermione, and she found herself reacting first as Ivana and only belatedly as herself. That was going to need watching when she went back to Hogwarts in-

_Fuck._

Adults didn’t suddenly disappear, and if they did, they would have the Aurors out looking for them. Hermione had made a companion of Macnair. He was going to _notice_ when Ivana went missing. How had she overlooked that? How had _Dumbledore_ overlooked that?

Unless he hadn’t, and meant for her to continue as Ivana during the school year.

“Anyone know where Dumbledore is?” she asked, interrupting Sirius’s regaling of some prank or other he’d pulled.

“Hogwarts,” Moody said. “Why? You need to talk to ‘im?”

“Oh, yes,” she said grimly. “I just realized something.”

“You look angry,” Fletcher said.

“I am.” She ground her teeth.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked.

Hermione glanced at the Weasleys still in Hogwarts and said, “Later.”

After dinner, Tonks and Moody led her to a room on the second floor and cast so many privacy spells on the door Hermione was momentarily distracted from her thoughts. Moody pinned her in place with a stare and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Hermione growled. “I’m an idiot, that’s what,” she said. “I just realized Ivana’s going to disappear in a month, and Macnair’s going to flip. Dumbledore knew that, so either he honestly thought I’d get information from him in two months or he’s expecting me to continue over the school year.”

Moody and Tonks stared at her. “Er,” Tonks said tentatively, “you didn’t think of that earlier?”

“No!” Hermione cried. “I didn’t even think about it! Snape and Flitwick probably did, that’s why they tried so hard to talk me out of it, but it didn’t even occur to me!”

“And that’s why using teenagers is a bad idea,” Moody said, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Terrible at thinking things through.”


	20. Yes, My Lord

Hermione drank the first Polyjuice variant after Flooing to Mrs. Figg’s house. The wizard from Family Services was prompt, at least, and Hermione found herself drinking the second variant around noon, before she Flooed back to Grimmauld.

Lunch was in full swing when she appeared. “How’d it go?” Black asked her through a mouthful of sandwich.

Hermione shrugged. “Well enough.” It had been odd to hear her voice in her normal accent, this morning; she’d gotten used to speaking with a Bulgarian accent over the last month. Now that she was back to the Bulgarian accent, it was conversely both soothingly familiar and alarmingly foreign.

“Join us,” Molly said.

Hermione smiled wearily. “Thanks.”

After lunch, Hermione had no pressing matters, so she joined the underage Weasleys setting the sitting room to rights. Fred and George were put to dusting with the Expulso Charm. Ron started working at beating the insects out of the couch. Hermione and Ginny went through the bookshelves.

Unsurprisingly, most of the books were on Dark magic. The detailed guides went into the rubbish bin, but Hermione saved some of the theory books; knowing how the spells worked might be useful later. By the time they were done, there were just under a dozen books left and Fred and George had started on the couch with Ron. Hermione stood, cracking her back, and joined them.

Between the five of them, they put a dent in the population before dinner. Afterwards, the kids were put back to cleaning. Hermione Flooed back to her flat and shored up the shields that separated Hermione and Ivana; there was already an uncomfortable amount of bleedthrough, and she didn’t want any more.  
***  
Macnair knocked on her door at seven o’clock exactly. She opened the door for him and grinned. “Hi, Walden.”

“Ivana.” He smiled. “Are you ready?”

“I am.” He led her to the Apparition point. “We’re going to the Malfoy estate, near Wiltshire. Have you been?”

“We’re meeting the Malfoys tonight?” Ivana asked, caught by surprise.

“Yes. I thought it a shame to put it off any longer.”

She forced a smile. “I’ve never been to Wiltshire.”

“Then I’ll take you,” he said brightly, offering his arm. She took it, and a moment of eternal pressure later they stood at the bottom of impressive marble steps.

“They have anti-Apparition wards on the manor itself,” Walden explained. He began climbing the steps, and since he still had a tight grip on her arm, she had to follow.

A tiny creature with odd ears opened the door. “Walden Macnair and Ivana Pavlova for dinner,” Walden said.

“Yes, sir and miss,” the thing squeaked. “Inside, pleases.”

They stepped into the foyer. The Malfoy parents appeared once the creature was gone. Walden grinned at them - “Lucius! Narcissa!”

“Hello, Walden,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Is this she?”

“It is. Ivana Pavlova, meet Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, of House Malfoy.”

“A pleasure,” she said.

“As it is for us, Miss Pavlova,” Mr. Malfoy said, taking her hand and kissing it.

“Please. Ivana.”

“Then I am Lucius, and this is Narcissa. Come - dinner is waiting.”

They followed him to the dining room and sat. Lucius held out Narcissa’s chair until she was seated.

For dinner itself, Lucius and Narcissa asked questions of her upbringing and her home in Bulgaria, questions Hermione turned over to Ivana to answer. She slowly relaxed; neither Malfoy was being overtly threatening, and as long as she kept calm and her Occlumency remained in place, she would be fine.

After dessert, they retired to the drawing room. Lucius poured brandy for each of them and settled in a leather chair.

“Ivana,” he said, “as Walden has doubtless told you, we are quite sympathetic to your view of Muggles. And so I must ask: why come here, to Britain, when there are certainly plenty of Mudbloods to deal with in Bulgaria?”

Ivana had an answer ready. “When Karkaroff disappeared,” she said, “it was obvious to those of us raised with brain what had happened. I came to offer my services.”

“Still, why not remain in Bulgaria?” Narcissa asked. “It’s quite a different culture.”

“It is,” she agreed easily. “But Bulgaria has no one to rally behind, no one to direct the cause. Here, it is different. The Dark Lord is here.”

Hermione answered questions in the same vein for nearly an hour. Walden started by grabbing her hand, but near the end, his fingers were running up and down his arm. He stayed quiet the entire time.

At last, it was time for them to take their leave. They Flooed back to Hermione’s flat and stood over her table for a short moment before Macnair grabbed her up in a passionate kiss. They made plans to meet again the next night, and then he took his leave.

The next day, Parkinson and Bulstrode went into Diagon Alley. Hermione saw them as she was scooping out a sundae for an upcoming second-year Ravenclaw. They didn’t recognize her - not surprising, since she was still in Ivana’s getup - and she was suddenly angry. These girls, the same age as Hermione, gossiping and not seeming to have a care in the world, while she was pretending to be someone else and spying on the Death Eaters because Dumbledore had asked her to. It wasn’t _fair_ \- but then, when was her life _ever_ fair?

Macnair knocked on her door at six-thirty and led her down to the Apparition room. He didn’t offer where they were going, and Hermione, caught up in bitterness and rage and just barely keeping Ivana in charge, didn’t think to ask.

They reappeared on a forest trail. Macnair took something from the pocket of his dark robes and put it over his head.

A Death Eater mask.

 _Fuck._ He’d brought her to a Death Eater meeting. Up ahead was a clearing; she could see more Death Eaters there, all of them turned to face them. There was no way she was getting out of this one - she just had to play it by ear.

To that end, she smiled as she and Macnair approached. A few of them nodded at her. She nodded back. Macnair came to a halt just inside the clearing.

“Ah,” said a high, cold voice. “Our guest of honor has arrived.”

The Death Eaters formed a circle, leaving the middle open, and Hermione wished they hadn’t. She shoved Ivana to the front of her mind and threw up as much extra protection as she could on the shields separating Ivana and Hermione. She still didn’t think it would be enough, but she had to try, for there, in the middle of the circle, was a bald man. His red eyes fairly gleamed with malevolence. His nose had been hacked off, leaving slits in the middle of his face. His skin was so pale and translucent she could see the veins in his face and hands. The robes he wore gave him the appearance of someone too tall and thin to be human.

She was face-to-face with the Dark Lord. She was _so_ dead.

“Come here, Ivana Pavlova,” he said, holding out a hand. Trying not to tremble, she stepped forward until she was close enough for him to grab her wrist. His eyes locked on hers, and her rudimentary outer shields fell. He was inside Ivana, diving into a memory here, a recollection there. She could tell when he found the memories of working the long nights with Muggles. Somehow, impossibly, he didn’t seem to take notice of the shield between Ivana and Hermione.

He broke eye contact. “Friends,” he announced, “tonight, I am giving Pavlova here a choice.” He smiled with thin, bloodless lips, and it was all she could do to not shriek in terror. “Pavlova, you may take my Mark and join faithful Death Eaters - or you may die.”

Hermione quailed in terror, but Ivana answered smoothly. “I dream only of serving you, my Lord.”

“Very well, then. You will not be receiving my Mark on your arm, Pavlova. I have something special in mind for you.” He grinned then, revealing bone-white teeth. “You shall receive my Mark on your leg.” He pushed her, and she stumbled back and collapsed onto a lounge chair that had suddenly appeared. The Dark Lord pulled the hem of her robe to her knees and placed his wand on her calf with long, slender fingers.

She cried out with the pain of it. For a moment, there was nothing in the world but the bright, crystalline pain wracking her body.

And then it receded, the only remnant a painful throbbing in her calf, and she looked down to see the Dark Mark branded into her skin. Hermione stared at the snake coming out of the skull’s mouth for perhaps two seconds before she remembered how much danger she was in and shoved Ivana in charge again.

“Welcome your newest member,” the Dark Lord said triumphantly. Hermione stood and accepted their cheers and applause.

“Now leave us,” he said, cutting off the noise. “Pavlova and I have much to discuss.”

The Death Eaters left in ones or twos or threes, and soon she was alone with him. She gathered every ounce of her courage to not run from the clearing, knowing that if she did she was as good as dead.

“Pavlova,” he said, “you came from Bulgaria less than two months ago, did you not?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You are going to send a message to Albus Dumbledore, asking to join his infernal Order. I have another spy already there; he will help you with anything you may need. You will report weekly, and you will come when I call.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she said when it was clear he was expecting a response.

“I would like you to find a reason to be at Hogwarts this year,” he continued. “It is Dumbledore’s base, and I need intelligence in how the layout has changed.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Very well, then. The spy will contact you within the next three days. I expect you to have contacted Dumbledore by our next meeting.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Should you fail… _Crucio!_ ”

Hermione hit the ground screaming. She’d thought the Dark Mark was bad, had thought she’d felt ;ain before, but this - _this!_ It was indescribable, every inch of her burning and freezing and being stabbed at the same time, her insides being ripped apart by broken glass, her brain being pierced by dull knives-

And then it ended. “Do not disappoint me,” he said, and Disapparated, leaving her alone. Hermione Apparated for the flat, shaking so badly she didn’t expect to make it one piece, but she did get there with all of her flesh still attached, so that was one thing she’d done right tonight.

Macnair was waiting for her in the Apparition room. “Ivana!” he said. “Congratulations! I knew you’d make it!”

“Thank you, Walden,” she said stiffly.

Somehow, he ended up in her flat, and very obnoxiously ignored her requests to leave. He didn’t leave until the sun was up and he’d taken what he wanted from her.  
***  
The next night, she Flooed into Grimmauld Place an hour earlier than she normally did. She couldn’t stand being alone or with a Death Eater one moment longer.

“Ivana!” Molly said, sounding pleased. “I wasn’t expecting you yet!”

She took one look at Molly’s kind face and burst into tears. She covered her face with her hands and tried to leave the room, but Molly grabbed her into a hug and patted her back, whispering, “Shh...it’ll be okay...it’s not that bad….” and other soothing nothings, interspersed with, “Sirius, make some tea, would you?” and “Arthur, put that away, the kids are coming down!” 

Hermione had never been held like this, that she could remember. Maybe when she was very small, but after her cousin when she was six, her parents had decided she would never make a good wife, and so she’d have to make a good whore. Certainly none of her clients had ever done this, nor any of her teachers. Molly was holding her like she was something precious, and that just made her cry harder.

Finally, she was calm enough to pull away, hiccuping a bit. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. Her voice cracked on that one word.

Molly led her to the table and sat her down. Hermione couldn’t quite suppress a wince as her sore lower body made contact with the hard wood. “What happened, dear?” she asked. Sirius sat a steaming cup of tea in front of her and watched her warily.

“You all know that - that I’ve been getting close to Macnair,” she said. They all nodded. “Well, yesterday, it - I guess I did a bit too well” - she laughed wetly and wiped her eyes again - “he took me to meet the Dark Lord.”

Gasps met her ears. “How did you get away?” someone asked, sounding appalled.

She swallowed hard. “I told him I’d spy on Dumbledore for him. He Marked me - not my arm, he knew Dumbledore’s check there, my leg - and warned me not to fail him or he’d Crucio me. Again, since he wanted to make sure I knew what was waiting.”

“I’d be crying, too,” Bill said shakily. “Merlin.”

She shook her head. “Macnair - he spent the night. I couldn’t get him to go away,” she said, and she was crying again, _damn it._ “I should have - done _something_ , I don’t know what, but I just froze and I couldn’t think, and I couldn’t make him go away-”

“You shush,” Molly said firmly. “Whatever that man did, it’s not your fault.”

“It’s really not,” Bill said, white as a sheet.

“It must have been a busy night,” Sirius said.

Upstairs, the portrait began screaming, and Sirius’s face brightened. “He’s here!” he exclaimed, and raced out.

“Who’s here?” she asked.

“Harry Potter,” Arthur said. “After Monday, it was decided he’d be safer here than elsewhere.”

“What happened Monday?” She’d been in his neighborhood Monday and hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary - but then, she hadn’t left Mrs. Figg’s house.

“Him and his cousin were attacked by dementors.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “Good job he knows the Patronus.”

“How d’you know that?” Bill asked shrewdly.

She smiled tightly. “I’m not really Ivana Pavlova, remember? There’s a lot of things you think I don’t know.”

Bill was saved from having to answer by the appearance of Tonks, Lupin, Moody, Hestia Jones, Elphias Doge, Emmeline Vance, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. “How’d it go?” Arthur asked them.

“Everyone’s alive,” Moody grunted. Both of his eyes fell on her. “You’re early.”

Hermione shrugged. “Didn’t want to be alone,” she said, smiling wanly.

“You were crying,” Lupin said. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I’ll tell you when everyone’s here...I’m expecting a lecture from Snape, at least, and probably Dumbledore, and everyone else who knows….”

“Knows what?” Lupin asked.

“That bad?” Tonks asked lightly.

“Worse,” she groaned. “Snape’s going to _murder_ me.”

“Nonsense,” Tonks said briskly. “He feels responsible for you. He might rough you up a bit, but he won’t kill you.”

“Why would Snape feel responsible for her?” Bill asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” Hermione sipped her tea. “Where is everyone? The meeting should be starting soon.”

“On their way, I’m sure,” Molly said, glancing at the clock.

Silence reigned for a few minutes as the newcomers settled in. Tonks sat by Hermione and leaned in to whisper, “You were being dramatic earlier, right? Things aren’t really wrong?”

Hermione shook her head. “Things are _really_ wrong,” she breathed. “I’m in way over my head, Tonks, I should’ve said no.”

Tonks put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “It’ll all work out,” she said brightly. “Hey - wanna see my hair in plaid?”

“You can _do_ that?”

People trickled in as Hermione allowed herself to be distracted. Tonks had just turned her hair McGonagall’s favorite tartan when Dumbledore walked in, followed quickly by Snape.

“I believe Miss Pavlova has some events to report,” Dumbledore said. The general din quieted instantly, and all eyes turned to her. Those who had been in the kitchen earlier looked sympathetic, the others curious.

Hermione stood. “I was supposed to get close to Walden Macnair,” she said dully. “He’s a Death Eater, and I was supposed to pose as a sympathizer and gain information.

“On Wednesday night, he took me to dinner at the Malfoys’, where they asked all sorts of questions about why I’d come to Britain, why I was a pureblood supremacist, how I was prepared to support the cause - all of it. I suppose they must have gone to the Dark Lord with my answers, because last night, Macnair showed up for our weekly dinner and took us to a forest.”

A few people sucked in breaths. Hermione continued relentlessly, “The Dark Lord was there. He said my choice was to be Marked, or die. I’m still here, so clearly” - she barked out mirthless laughter - “he Marked me. He sent everyone else away, then told me I was going to be his spy in Dumbledore’s ranks. Told me to find a way to stay at Hogwarts this year, map out the castle.”

“Is that all?” Dumbledore asked, looking very old.

“Yes.”

“No it’s not,” Bill said. “Tell him the rest of it.”

“Miss Pavlova,” Dumbledore said, “I do need to hear it all.”

She closed her eyes. “Macnair was waiting for me to get back to the flat,” she said dully. “I couldn’t get him to leave. He stayed the night.” Her voice cracked again.

The room was silent. Finally, Dumbledore said, “Severus. How about you give your report.”

Snape reported on the Death Eaters. It seemed You-Know-Who had managed to gain another dozen followers or so, through threats and intimidation, mostly. They’d killed a goblin family. You-Know-Who’s spies had mapped a route to the Department of Mysteries, and its sought-after contents, up to what the Unspeakable Tallow called ‘The Spinning Room”. Arthur pulled out the map, and Tallow pointed to the door they’d been arguing over for a month. “The room just past here,” he said.

Others spoke, then, of recruiting efforts and defense techniques. Moody gave a full report of getting Potter from the Dursleys’. Tonks put in that there were bars on Potter’s window, and seven locks on the outside - clearly meant to keep him in, rather than anyone else out.

After that, the meeting broke up a bit. Those who were staying for dinner remained in the kitchen, while everyone else trickled out. Snape looked at Hermione and jerked his head, a clear command to follow. He led her to the sitting room, locked the door, cast a Silencing Charm, and pointed at the couch. “Sit.”

She did as she was told, sitting gingerly so as not to hurt herself worse.

“Are you all right?” he asked, voice too measured and calm. “I have heard Macnair speak of conquests before.”

She made a face. “It’s not too bad.”

He snorted. “At least you’re not insisting you’re all right.”

She shook her head and looked down. “I know I’m stupid, but-”

“I’ve told you before, you’re not stupid,” he interrupted. “I’ll thank you to stop calling yourself that.”

She smiled weakly. “We both know I’m in over my head here, and there’s no way out.”

“Granger,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re making it very difficult to yell at you.”

“How could I have done better?” she asked, suddenly desperate for answers. “Please. Tell me how I can avoid this next time.”

“There’d better not _be_ a next time!”

“I’ve been _Marked!_ ” she snapped at him. “Of _course_ there’s going to be a next time, and I’d like to make it out alive!”

“You did fine last night.”

“ _Ivana_ did fine last night. _Hermione_ did not.”

“Hermione put Ivana in charge. Ivana needs to sharpen up her instincts a little better, and start finding escape routes everywhere.”

“Where was the escape route last night?”

“Use the emergency Portkey to Grimmauld Place.” He shook his head. “I told Albus not to ask you for this.”

“But I’m here now.” She sighed and, to her horror, felt tears welling up again. “I should have listened to you back in June.”

“Too late for that now.” Snape looked tired. “I’m going to tell the Dark Lord that I’ve taken you as an apprentice as you get ready for your Master’s examination in Potions. We’ll have to register you as a candidate, and you’ll have to be Ivana at least part of the time in the castle, but it’s your best shot.”

Hermione nodded and swallowed hard.

“Oh, stop snivelling,” Snape said, but the usual sharp tone was missing.

“I’m sorry!” Hermione said. “I can’t stop _crying_ today!”

Snape sighed and sat next to her. “I’m not surprised, after Macnair last night. He has a certain...reputation, for leaving witches broken.”

Hermione shook her head. “Should’ve found a way to get him out.”

“Granger, the only way to do that would be to pickle his penis. As much joy as that thought gives me, it would make things infinitely more difficult for you.” He hesitated. “I was surprised you fooled the Dark Lord last night.”

“So was I. After he found the memories of working, he stopped looking. Guess he figured I had enough reason to hate Muggles and wasn’t going to turn on him.”

“I’m rather surprised you don’t hate Muggles, after that.”

Hermione sighed. “I met as many nice Muggles as I did mean ones. And Lockhart proved it’s not just Muggles who do that.”

Snape rubbed his eyes. “As relieved as I am that you’re confiding in someone, I would prefer not to know details.”

“ _I_ don’t want the details, I’m not about to inflict them on you.” She sniffled.

“You’re not going to stop crying any time soon, are you.”

“Probably not. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” he said gruffly, and handed her a handkerchief.

That kindness undid her just as much as Molly’s face had earlier. Deep sobs racked her body. Snape placed a hand on her back, and that meant more to her than Molly’s embrace. Molly’s first instinct was to comfort, but Snape’s was not. For him to be comforting her as she was snotting all over his handkerchief meant he actually liked her, and that was terrifying. Snape was cold, emotionless, distant. He was _safe_ , because he didn’t _care_ , except he very clearly _did_ , and Hermione didn’t know what to _do_ with that.

Finally, the tears stopped coming. Her eyes felt itchy and dry, and she just knew her face was blotchy. Snape’s hand was still on her back.

“ _Scourgify,_ ” she muttered, and gave him back his handkerchief.

He tucked it inside his robes. “Feel better?”

“Eh.” She managed a trembling smile. “Ask me when he’s dead.”

“Macnair or the Dark Lord?”

“Both.” She sighed. “Maybe I’ll just kill Macnair...or, ooh, host a dinner party and fake Ivana’s death….”

“Should you decide to, let me know. I know several undetectable poisons I can brew.” He glanced at the clock. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course,” she said.

He nodded. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I need to go yell at Albus.”

“Go ahead.”

They left the sitting room and went their separate ways, Snape to the porch, Hermione to the kitchen. Dinner was in full swing.

“Join us, Ivana,” Molly said. “I won’t hear of you going back to that flat of yours.”

“Thanks, Molly,” she said, and sat next to Tonks, who was entertaining Ginny by changing her nose every few minutes. Fred and George were whispering to each other, occasionally glancing over at her. Ron and Potter were talking to Sirius, who was regaling them with tales of his youth while Remus smiled and nodded along. Arthur, Molly, and Bill sat at the very end, talking to each other and keeping an eye on the rest of the table.

Hermione stayed as long as she could before politely taking her leave. When she reached her flat, she curled up under the covers and stared at the wall while she tried her best to think of nothing at all.


	21. Potions Apprentice

Hermione was summoned to a Death Eater meeting two days later. She went with Macnair, who showed her how to Apparate using the Dark Mark to guide her rather than the destination. They arrived at the same forest clearing - at least, Hermione thought it was the same clearing - and put on their masks. A man with a silver hand gave Hermione her own to wear.

That would make this easier. She could make whatever facial expression she wanted, and nobody would know.

The Dark Lord appeared in the middle of the circle. One by one, the Death Eaters dropped to their knees, crawled forward, kissed the hem of his robes, and murmured, “Master.” Hermione followed suit, swallowing back bile. How had Snape done this for so long?

He greeted them with a grandiose speech about victory in the coming war, and then called them all up, one by one, to receive their reports. Most of them were about inner workings of the Ministry; Hermione filed the information away in her brain. She was sure Snape was doing the same, but it couldn’t hurt to have two people doing it.

Snape’s turn came. He reported that the Order had moved Potter from his relatives’ to the Order headquarters, and that they continued to argue over how best to guard the door to the Department of Mysteries.

Then it was Hermione’s - or rather, Ivana’s - time to report. “I contacted Dumbledore,” she said. “He hasn’t replied, so I’ll-”

The Crucio hit her mid-sentence, and she crumpled, screaming. It went on, and on, and on-

“I told you, I will not tolerate failure,” he snapped.

“Yes, my Lord,” she managed. “I’ll send him another letter.”

“See that you do. Macnair?”

Hermione shakily got to her feet. Nobody helped her up - not that she expected them to.

At the end of the meeting, the Dark Lord called forth the Malfoys, who carried a struggling burden between them. They deposited it on the ground before him. The burden clambered upright, revealing itself to be about four and a half feet tall and humanoid, though with an appalling number of warts and a ridiculously long nose.

 _Hag_.

“This creature,” the Dark Lord announced, “has decided that her clan is too good to join us.” Jeers greeted that pronouncement. “Tomorrow morning, her clan will wake to her head on their doorstep. Pavlova!” Hermione’s guts turned to water. “Step forward and prove your worth.”

Hermione swallowed and stepped forward. He wanted the hag’s head. A hag wasn’t human, was barely a creature instead of a beast, but she was going to have a hell of a hard time following through on this.

The alternative was her death, and then the hag’s. Or maybe the hag would die first, and she would be second? Either way, the hag was going to die tonight, and Hermione was the only one who would make it fast and as painless as death could be. With that logic, she raised her wand at the hag - it shook only slightly - and forced herself to say, “ _Cumcaputeius,_ ” a spell from one of the Black’s Dark magic books. A sick feeling welled up inside her when the hag’s head detached from her shoulders and hit the ground with a thud, followed shortly by her body.

She’d done it. She’d killed her.

True, it was faster and nicer - for a given value of ‘nicer’ - than anyone else would have done it. Still, she was dead, and Hermione had been the one to do it.

She was shaken from her thoughts by the Dark Lord saying, “Not in the mood to play tonight?”

“My Lord, I will do what needs to be done,” Ivana said, “but I take no pleasure in torture. You asked me to kill her, so I did.”

She was expecting the Cruciatus he cast on her. That didn’t make it any more pleasant. When it lifted, she could taste blood - she’d bitten right through her tongue.

“Watch how you speak to me,” he spat at her.

“Yes, my Lord,” she managed. Two Crucios in one night - she needed to get better at not making him mad.

“All of you - leave,” he snapped, and Disapparated.

Macnair helped her up. “You need to watch yourself,” he said quietly as the others departed.

“I know,” she said.

Dumbledore’s reply arrived the next day, agreeing to her request for a meeting. To that end, Hermione Apparated to Hogsmeade and trekked to the castle directly after work on Tuesday. They sat in his office for an hour. For the first fifteen minutes, Hermione reported on the hag and other Death Eater news, and Dumbledore scolded her for using a Dark spell.

“It was the fastest way,” Hermione said. “The hag wasn’t making it out alive anyway.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I understand. Still, I wish you’d found another way.”

“Like what?”

“A Cutting Curse, perhaps. Dark magic will turn you into someone you don’t recognize if you are not exceedingly careful.

“I know, but a certain amount is necessary. They’ll ask questions if I don’t know at least _some_ Dark spells.”

“Be careful,” he said, “that’s all I ask.”

“I’ll try,” she promised.

For the remainder of the time, they talked idly of school matters and how Ivana and Hermione were to be in school at the same time. Hermione’s reputation for reclusiveness would stand her in good stead, it appeared; her housemates not knowing where she was in the evenings would mean they wouldn’t think it strange when they couldn’t find her while Ivana was working with Snape.

“You will have to work towards a Potions Mastery,” Dumbledore warned her. “Severus has put aside a few books he believes will be helpful, especially since you have yet to finish school. I believe he sent them to your flat this morning.”

“I haven’t been back since I left for work,” Hermione said. “How do adults work all day and then come home and work more? It’s exhausting!”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Most of us do not go straight into a full-time job while spying on Voldemort,” he said.

Hermione couldn’t help the flinch at his name. Now that she’d met him face-to-face, felt the evil he radiated off, referring to him by name just felt _wrong_.

“Remember,” he said, “fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself.”

“I don’t think I could be more afraid of him if I _tried_ ,” Hermione admitted.

Dumbledore smiled genially. “Then there’s no harm in calling him by his name, is there?”

Hermione shook her head and let it go. A wizard as powerful as Dumbledore couldn’t understand. He’d probably never been afraid in his life, or at least not in so long he’d forgotten what it felt like.

Dumbledore taught her a few healing charms while she was there and slipped her a parchment with the instructions for brewing a potion to counteract the effects of the Cruciatus. Hermione had all the ingredients in her student kit.

She froze. “I’ll need to buy school supplies somehow,” she said.

“I’ll ask Molly to buy them,” Dumbledore said calmly. “She’ll be buying her family’s and Mr. Potter’s, she won’t balk at one more set.”

“Thank you,” she said, relieved.

“It’s no problem,” he said. “Now. I believe our hour is almost up. Is there anything else you’d like to discuss? Severus had much to say to me last week.”

Hermione winced. “I was upset,” she said vaguely.

Dumbledore nodded gravely. “I must admit, I didn’t think you’d get quite so deep in two months. I was expecting to fake a family emergency in Bulgaria at the end of August so Ivana Pavlova had reason to disappear.”

“Guess that blew up in our faces,” Hermione said.

“A bit,” he allowed, eyes twinkling. “If you need to talk, or vent, just send a note asking to meet and I will make time. I’m quite sure Severus will, as well as Minerva or even Filius. They’re rather fond of you.”

Hermione blushed. “Thanks,” she muttered.

Dumbledore stood. “It was a pleasure, Miss Pavlova,” he said. “Please owl me should you need anything at all.”

“I will, Professor Dumbledore,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

He escorted her out, waving cheerfully to Filch when they ran into him on the third floor of the Grand Staircase. Filch glared and muttered something. Mrs. Norris wound around his ankles.

Sure enough, Snape’s books were waiting on the shelf outside her window that had been built solely to receive packages when the tenant was out. She unwrapped them from the thick brown parchment and read the note on top:

 _Pavlova, if we are to make this work, you must be at a post-NEWT level. Read through the books and owl me any questions you have before the school year begins._

If she’d had any doubt about who was sending her Potions texts, the spiky handwriting and brusque tone would remove any doubt even though the letter was unsigned. She set the note to the side and examined the texts. _A Guide to Advanced Potion-Making; Bezoars and Butterfly Wings: An Examination of Common Potion Ingredients; Potions: More Than the Sum of Their Parts; A Compendium of Essential Potions Knowledge;_ and _Potions Quarterly: A Review of the Best Articles of 25 Years!_ were included in the package. _A Guide to Advanced Potion-Making_ had a strip of parchment sticking out the top that said _Read me first_ in Snape’s hand. She opened that one and found that the strip had writing all the way down:

_This was my sixth-year Potions textbook. The notes in the margins should be helpful in more ways than one. The Compendium should help you make sense of the books, should you have difficulty. I would suggest attempting to brew the potions listed on the back of this paper and owl me with any difficulty._

She flipped the paper over and found a list of twenty-odd potions, some of which she recognized. The more arcane ones were at the bottom, and she realized Snape had most likely ordered them by difficulty.

Hermione smiled, shelved the others, and carried the battered old textbook to the couch to read through. By the end of the first chapter, she knew she was in trouble. Instead of making perfect sense, as her textbooks usually did, the book was a dense thicket of jargon. She relocated to the desk, bringing the _Compendium_ with her, and took notes as best she could. Even so, there were gaps in her knowledge that the two books couldn’t fill. She was going to need to read the fifth-year section of her Potions text before she could make any sense of these books.

Over the next month, she spent most of her free time working through the Potions texts and brewing the potions Snape had suggested. She put as little effort as possible into her relationship with Macnair, claiming she needed to be able to gain her Mastery in order to fulfill the mission the Dark Lord had given her. Whenever her leg burned, she Disapparated for the Death Eater meetings. She and Snape had both been given the same information to pass along; Dumbledore supposed Hermione had been told to spy in order to ensure Snape was still on the Dark Lord’s side. The Dark Lord wasn’t expecting much of Pavlova, new as she was to spying, and so was satisfied that their information overlapped.

On the 31st of August, the day before they were to arrive at Hogwarts, the Dark Mark burned. She limped down to the Apparition room and left for the meeting, absently noticing she didn’t see Macnair on the way down. When the world resolved around her, she found herself in a comfortable, well-furnished room. The Dark Lord sat in an armchair, staring into a fire.

“Pavlova,” he said, “I hear you are to be Snape’s apprentice this school year.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“He will be busy during the day, teaching classes. I have another assignment for you.”

“My Lord?” She was already mapping the castle and spying on Dumbledore for him; what else could he want from her?”

“This year,” he said calmly, “you will find a way for us to enter the castle unannounced.”

“Of course, my Lord,” she said, thanking everything that Snape had drilled Occlumency into her so well; otherwise her voice would have shaken.

“You will have until June. Earlier is preferable.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You may go.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” She dipped a bow and Disapparated. Ivana had to finish packing for Hogwarts.

One day, living as two separate people was going to give her a complex.  
***  
Ivana Apparated to London after she finished cleaning out her flat. After a quick Feather-Light Charm, she carried her trunk to a bathroom in Kings Cross station, brought it into a handicap-accessible stall with her, and drank the first Polyjuice variant Snape had created for her. After the odd feeling subsided, she opened the trunk and chucked Ivana’s clothes inside. She changed into clothes that fit Hermione and left the stall.

The train ride was uneventful. Ivana’s trunk was marked “c / o Severus Snape”, so it would be taken to his quarters when the train arrived; she was very careful to arrange the label facing the train wall so nobody would see it. With that done, Hermione settled against the wall and pulled out one of the fiction books that had been on the flat’s bookshelf. 

Hermione was one of the last ones off the train, and consequently one of the last ones in to the feast. She flicked her wand, putting up a shield that would withstand multiple hexes, jinxes, and curses before falling. She doubted they would try anything at the Opening Feast, but she’d been wrong before. That done, she looked up at the Head Table. Hagrid was noticeable by his absence; next to Dumbledore sat a toad-faced woman in lurid pink; and at the end, in Hagrid’s usual spot was a vaguely familiar woman Hermione couldn’t quite place.

She politely clapped whenever someone was Sorted into Slytherin, but she didn’t register any of their names. Parkinson and Malfoy paid attention, though that probably had more to do with the silver Prefects’ badges on their robes than with any actual caring on their part.

At last, the last first-year had been Sorted, and as McGonagall carried the hat and stool away, Dumbledore stood. “There is a time for speech-making,” he said, “but this is not it. Tuck in!”

The tables filled with food, fairly groaning under the weight. Hermione was left alone through the meal, so she eavesdropped on those around her. Nobody had anything of particular interest to say.

After dessert had cleared, Dumbledore stood and spread his arms. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!” he said, voice carrying clearly through the hall. “This year, we have a few staffing changes. First, taking Hagrid’s place in Care of Magical Creatures is Professor Grubbly-Plank!” The woman at the end waved. When the applause died down, Dumbledore continued, “Taking Defense Against the Dark Arts this year is Professor Umbridge!” Again waiting for the applause to die down, he went on, “Quidditch tryouts will take place on-”

He cut himself off quite abruptly and looked at Umbridge in astonishment. After a moment, he sat down smartly and looked at her.The new woman was so short Hermione hadn’t realized she’d stood. Smirks abounded in the hall; nobody ever interrupted Dumbledore, it just wasn’t _done._

Even so, Umbridge smiled at them all and launched into her speech. “Thank you for that kind introduction, Dumbledore! And how excited I am to see such happy little faces staring back at me! I’m sure we’ll all be very good friends.”

Hermione glanced around. None of the students looked particularly friendly; rather, they looked taken aback at being talked to like kindergarteners.

Umbridge went on, and this time her words sounded learned-by-heart instead of impromptu. “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance.The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community must be passed down the generations lest we lose them for ever.” 

Hermione looked around again. Nobody looked impressed by their rare gifts or ancient skills. Down the table a bit, some sixth years were whispering to each other.

Umbridge continued, “The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching. Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation - because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement.”

“Like letting her talk?” Bulstrode whispered to Parkinson, and they both giggled. The others nearby had clearly begun to ignored Umbridge, and over at the Ravenclaw table Luna Lovegood was reading a magazine upside-down.

“Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

She sat down. Hermione clapped automatically, as did some of the teachers and few of the students. Most had been lulled into a Binns-esque stupor by the dullness of her words and didn’t realize she’d stopped talking.

Dumbledore stood once more. “Thank you, Professor Umbridge! As I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will take place on-”

Hermione only half-listened to the rest of his opening speech. For the first time she could remember, it was punctuated by whispers around the Great Hall as students talked to each other about Umbridge.

Dumbledore finished his speech by saying, “And, on a different note, Professor Snape has taken on an apprentice. Ivana Pavlova will be introduced at lunch tomorrow, and I expect you all to treat her as kindly as you treated the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations last year.

“Now, I’m sure you are all quite tired, so to bed you go!” Dumbledore beamed at them.

“Password’s pure-blood,” Parkinson said as she got up to herd the first-years to the common room.

 _Of course it is,_ Hermione thought grumpily. That was one of the few passwords that was recycled and used at least once every year.

They received their schedules at breakfast the next morning, as usual. Hermione’s very first class was Defense Against the Dark Arts. She hadn’t had time to read the textbook beforehand, as she usually tried to do, and so it was with some trepidation she entered the classroom.

“Good morning, class!” Umbridge said, grinning horribly at them.

A few people mumbled ‘good morning’ back at her, and her smile slipped. “That won’t do at all,” she said. “When I say ‘Good morning, class’, I should expect you all to say back to me ‘good morning, Professor Umbridge’. Let’s try that again: Good morning, class!”

“Good morning, Professor Umbridge,” everyone more or less mumbled, looking askance at each other.

“Much better,” she said, sounding satisfied. “Wands away and quills out, please.” She tapped the board with her wand and spidery writing appeared:

_Defense Against the Dark Arts  
A Return to Basic Principles_

“Your teaching in this subject,” she said, “has been rather fragmented, I’m afraid. The constant changing of your teachers, many of whom did not even attempt to follow a Ministry-approved curriculum, has resulted in all of you being far below the standard we expect in your OWL year. You will be pleased to know that these problems are now being rectified: we will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.”

She tapped the blackboard again, and more writing appeared:

_Course aims:_  
1\. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic  
2\. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used  
3\. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use 

For a minute or so, there was no sound but that of quills on parchment. When the scribbling subsided, Umbridge asked, “Has everyone got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

“Yeah,” everyone muttered.

“I think we’ll try that again. When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, ‘Yes, professor Umbridge,’ or ‘No, Professor Umbridge.’ So, has everyone got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

“Yes, Professor Umbridge,” they chorused.

“Good,” said Umbridge, “Turn to page five and read chapter one, ‘Basics for Beginners’. There will be no need to talk.”

Everyone’s hands shot up instantly. Umbridge had an almost comical expression of surprise on her face for the briefest of moments before she said, “Yes... you are Lucius Malfoy’s son, are you not?”

“I am,” Malfoy said, lowering his hand. “It’s just that we got our schedules at breakfast and didn’t have time to retrieve our books, Professor.”

“Is that true of everyone?” she asked, looking around the room. Everyone else nodded.

Her face tightened. “Remember how I would like you to answer questions? Now, is that true of everyone?”

“Yes, Professor Umbridge,” they chanted.

She scowled at them. “There are...nine of you, so I think it had better be forty-five points from Slytherin, five each for not being prepared. Return to your dormitories and bring your books back at once.”

They scrambled out in a mad dash. On their way back, Parkinson grumbled, “First day and we’re reading from a book, what a waste!”

“That took longer than it should have,” Umbridge said when they’d reassembled, “but I will refrain from taking more points. Turn to page five and read chapter one, ‘Basics for Beginners’. There will be no need to talk.”

The book was dreadfully dull. Even Hermione, who could manage to pay attention through Binns’ dryest lectures, found her concentration slipping. She grit her teeth and took notes, forcing herself to retain the information.

When the bell rang to dismiss them, they left with no small amount of relief. After a short stop in the dungeons to pick up their Potions supplies, they hurried for the classroom, eager to drop off their heavy cauldrons and make the most of their ten-minute break. Hermione settled into her usual chair near the front, and as usual when they weren’t partnered, nobody sat next to her. She arranged her supplies and cauldron and then sat on her stool to page through the textbook.

The bell rang to signal the end of break and the other Slytherins found their seats. The Gryffindors trickled in, Potter and Weasley making it in just before the bell to start class. Snape swept in moments later, closed the door, and said, “Settle down.”

He didn’t need to say it. The second the door had closed, all talk had ended and all fidgeting had stopped. Snape’s classroom management was superb, even if it was based on fear.

“Before we begin today’s lesson,” he said, “I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an ‘acceptable’ on your OWL or suffer my...displeasure.”

His gaze lingered on Longbottom over the last sentence.

“After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me. I take only the best into my NEWT Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying good-bye.”

This time his eyes were on Potter, who glared back at him. Snape’s lip curled.

“But we have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell, so whether you are intending to attempt NEWT or not, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high-pass level I have come to accept from my OWL students.

“Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned: If you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing. The ingredients and method” - he flicked his wand, and words appeared on the blackboard - “are on the board. You will find everything you need” - another flick, and the door to the student cupboard sprang open - “in the store cupboard. You have an hour and a half….Begin.”

Hermione read the ingredients list quickly and grabbed what she needed. The first thing she’d need to do was prepare the ingredients. Reading through the instructions, Hermione saw there was a ten-minute break in the middle to allow the potion to simmer over an 849-degree flame. She separated her ingredients into pre- and post-simmer and began. The potion was more fiddly than those they’d attempted before, but well within their abilities provided they could follow directions.

At ten minutes remaining, Snape called, “A light silver vapor should now be rising from your cauldron.”

Hermione looked down. The top of her cauldron was shimmering silver mist over the milky-white of the potion itself, and she allowed herself a small, private smile. Snape nodded as he passed her, but didn’t praise her; she hadn’t expected him to, both because she was a Mudblood and he had to maintain appearances and because he expected more from her after a summer spent studying advanced texts and making potions in her flat. A potion like the Draught of Peace should be no more a challenge for her than turning a matchstick into a needle.

What was the incantation for that, again? She hadn’t needed to know it since first-year Transfiguration, and it would probably come up on the OWL.

“Potter,” Snape said, “what is this supposed to be?”

“The Draught of Peace,” he said.

“Tell me, Potter, can you read?”

“Yes, I can,” Potter said through what sounded like gritted teeth.

“Read the third line of instructions for me, Potter.”

“Add powdered moonstone, stir three times counterclockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes, then add two drops syrup of hellebore.”

“Did you do everything on the third line?”

Harry muttered something.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No, I forgot the hellebore.”

“I know you did, which means that this mess is utterly worthless. _Evanesco._ Those of you who _have_ managed to read the instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up to my desk for testing. Homework, twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making to be handed in on Thursday.”

Hermione bottled hers quickly. When it was safely on Snape’s desk, she turned around and surveyed the chaos of the classroom. Longbottom was having to scrape his eggshell-white potion from his cauldron with his silver knife. Crabbe’s cauldron was giving off angry sparks.

Shattering glass caught her attention. Goyle’s potion had broken the flagon and set his robes on fire. Snape had the flames out quickly.

Hermione purposefully left her bag under the desk in the classroom, as she’d arranged with Snape so she’d have an excuse to run back after putting her Potions supplies away. Snape looked up when she entered.

“Forgot my bag,” she said, and grabbed it.

Snape gave her a look just barely tinged with amusement. “Not hoping to miss Ivana Pavlova’s introduction, are you?”

“I’ll have plenty of chance to meet her,” she said innocently. “I believe I’ll go to the library this lunch, get that essay done.”

“An empty classroom would doubtless be quieter, without Madam Pince there to tut at you.”

“Very true,” she said, realizing his real point was that Pince would be able to say she hadn’t been there at all and thus expose her lie. She grabbed her bag, slipped into the storeroom, and stripped. The Polyjuice variant was waiting for her in the pocket of her bag, and a familiar sensation overcame her once she’d drunk it. She dressed in the robes Snape had slipped into the main section of her bag, cast a quick Accent Spell, and left the storeroom as Ivana Pavlova.

“Miss Pavlova,” Snape said evenly when she reappeared. “Are you ready for lunch?”

“I suppose I’ll have to be.” Once more, the accent sounded odd after spending so much time as Hermione Granger. The double-life was going to make her grey before she was thirty.

They started the walk up to the Great Hall after Snape cast several Locking Charms on the classroom door. “As you know,” Snape said, “you are here for your Potions Mastery. That entails independent research and development. Have you given any thought as to your project?”

“Um.” Hermione blinked. “Perhaps a Wolfsbane less difficult to brew?”

Snape smirked. “What ingredients would be needed to create that?”

That took some thought. “Aconite is the main ingredient,” she said, “but it’s toxic and expensive. Replacing that should be the first task. After that...sunstone, maybe, to counteract the moon, and since the moon affects water and water is linked to peace and healing, aquamarine or another water stone.” She was saying things as she thought of them, now. “Quartz is transformation, so what’s - stability and grounding, that’s agate and salt, and mica for freedom and intelligence?”

“Well reasoned,” Snape intoned. “What else?”

“Aloe, definitely, for protection and sustaining the body,” she said instantly. “Maybe dill, but I’m not convinced the wolf is evil, so that may not be necessary, and maybe angelica for exorcism or the wolf? It’s not native to the body, so that’s - bamboo milk is good for hex-breaking…um….”

“That’s certainly a good beginning,” Snape said. “We’re here.” 

He opened the door closest to the Slytherin table and strode through. Hermione followed in his wake, gaze fixed on his back. The Great Hall fell silent as they went to the staff table.

Dumbledore stood. “Welcome!” he boomed. Snape took his usual seat and gestured Hermione to the seat beside him. Dumbledore continued, “Students, this is Ivana Pavlova, Professor Snape’s apprentice. You will likely not see her often, because she is going for her Potions Mastery, and that takes a great deal of concentration and time. Miss Pavlova, have you decided on your Mastery project?”

She glanced at Snape, who nodded. She stood and said, “I’m looking into a more cost-effective way to produce the Wolfsbane Potion, and simplifying the process so a minimally-competent brewer can produce it.”

“Wonderful!” Dumbledore said, beaming. “Please, everyone, tuck in.”

Hermione sat next to Snape, who pushed a piece of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell over to her. “Start writing,” he ordered. “And think out loud. Ingredients, preparation techniques, stirring times and directions, heat, everything that goes into brewing a potion.”

“Ingredients,” Hermione said, writing that down. She copied everything she’d said on their way up: sunstone, aquamarine, agate, salt, mica, aloe, bamboo milk, potentially dill and angelica.

She frowned at the list. “This is going to make mud.”

“Probably,” Snape agreed. “The first few dozen tries always do. You learn from your failures, when you pay attention.” He sneered. “Unlike the students, I _do_ expect you to pay attention and learn from your failures.”

“Of course,” she said calmly, and looked back down at her list. “Where do I even begin with this?”

“More reading on lycanthropy,” Snape said promptly. “A werewolf’s blood would be helpful, so you can analyze it and its reactions to ingredients.”

“Would it matter if they’re taking Wolfsbane already?”

“If it’s the week before the full moon,” Snape said. “The rest of the time...most likely not.”

 _Hem hem,_ Hermione heard, and she looked over Snape’s shoulder to see Umbridge.

“Hello, Miss Pavlova,” she said breathily. “I’m so happy to have you here.”

“I’m happy to be here, Professor…?”

“Dolores Umbridge.” She giggled girlishly. “May I ask why you chose to focus on the Wolfsbane Potion?”

It had been the first potion to pop into her head, but she could come up with plenty of other reasons. “Right now, Wolfsbane Potion is so expensive and difficult that very few werewolves can afford to buy the potion, or they lack the money and skill to buy the ingredients and make the potion themselves. If it can be made less expensive and difficult to brew, more werewolves could afford it. When werewolves take Wolfsbane, they don’t attack anyone, and if they don’t attack anyone they’ll die out within a few generations.”

“I see,” Umbridge said. “Have you considered working on a potion with a more - ah - _varied_ application?”

“Such as?” Hermione asked politely.

Umbridge let out a breathy laugh. “There are many Healing Potions that have not been updated since the Middle Ages.”

“And there are many Healing Potions,” Hermione returned. “Healers have options.”

“I see you are not to be dissuaded.” Umbridge eyed her with dislike. “I would be careful. Cornelius - I mean, the _Minister_ \- would be very interested to hear of your interest in werewolves.”

“In eradicating them, you mean?” Hermione asked sweetly.

Umbridge’s face tightened, and she went back to her seat with much less forced cheer than when she’d come over.

Snape shook his head. “You need to work on your tact,” he murmured out of the side of his mouth.

Hermione stared at him. “Coming from you?”

Snape coughed.

That afternoon was Arithmancy, followed by Charms, where Flitwick grinned broadly at Hermione; he’d taught her dueling most of the past year. He started his class perched on top of a stack of books so as to see over his desk.

“What you must remember,” he said in his squeaky voice, “is that these examinations may influence your futures for many years to come. If you have not already given serious thought to your careers, now is the time to do so. And in the meantime, I’m afraid, we shall be working harder than ever to ensure that you all do yourselves justice!”

They spent the rest of the period working on Summoning Charms. Hermione stood somewhat apart from her fellows, idly Summoning pillows and challenging herself to aim better by choosing those on the bottom of the pile. Flitwick wandered over about half an hour in and said, “Will I have the pleasure of your company again this year?”

Hermione smiled at him. “Maybe. I’ll have to see how my schedule is, with OWLs this year. I’d certainly like to.”

“Just let me know.” He went back to Crabbe and Goyle, who were still failing miserably even though they’d learned the charm the year before.

After dinner, Hermione made like she was going to the library but instead went to Snape’s office. In the loo on the way there she turned back into Ivana Pavlova.

“Hello, Miss Pavlova,” Snape said when she appeared in his door. He stood and gestured her back into the hallway. “This way, please, there’s a lab for us to work in.”

He stopped before a painting of an old woman with a long beard. “The password here is _venenum_.” The old woman cackled and swung forward. Snape gestured Hermione through.

The lab held two long tables. On one, several cauldrons stood over fires. “This is where I brew the stocks for the hospital wing,” he explained. “General stores are to the east. Glassware, stirring rods, and other equipment is to the north. Ingredients that are rare or require more security are to the west. Books and manuals are here at the south. Do you still have the parchment from lunch?” Hermione nodded and pulled it from her robe pocket. “Let’s sit and discuss a bit.”

They spent the next few hours going over how the potion could eventually come together. Snape made a few suggestions for the replacement of aconite, though he added it was doubtful it could be completely replaced. By the end of the night, they’d created a crude approximation of ratios.

“That should get you started,” Snape said, looking at the list. “We’ll meet again Saturday after dinner. I want you to have the instructions for brewing by then. Those books I sent you - you read them? Refer to them before you come to me. The more often you change, the more likely it is you’ll be caught out.” Hermione nodded in understanding. “I’m tempted to give you detention again so nobody goes looking for you,” he muttered.

Hermione laughed. “Somehow I think being in detention for ten months straight will be more suspicious.”

“Perhaps.”

“How was your first day of OWL year?”

“Not too bad. Flitwick told us all how important the OWLs were and then reviewed Summoning Charms for an hour. He offered to continue dueling lessons, if I wanted - I think I might take him up on it.”

“You don’t have enough on your plate? You want to add _more_ lessons?”

“Dueling’s going to be very handy,” she said defensively. “I learned more in two months from him than in four years of Defense class. Well, three years, Lupin was a pretty good teacher, but third year was creatures so we didn’t do any dueling.”

“You’re babbling,” Snape said. “Do I need to feed you Draught of Peace?”

Hermione giggled. “I wouldn’t turn it down,” she admitted. “I’m feeling a bit slap-happy.”

“That happens with repeated doses of Polyjuice. We’ll _definitely_ only want to meet once or twice a week, then, or it may progress into psychosis.”

“Psychosis?” Hermione repeated, alarmed.

Snape waved it off. “As long as you remain slap-happy from the potion, it is not a concern. If you begin hallucinating, however, we’ll have to find a better solution.” He grimaced. “I didn’t think you’d be switching between Hermione and Ivana quite so often.”

“Nobody did,” Hermione said. “Looking in the mirror’s been a real trip.”

“I’m sure,” Snape said. “You should get some homework done tonight. Don’t worry about any essays I assign, I’ll count our research towards your grades.”

“Wow, thanks!”

“I’d rather not have you falling asleep over your cauldron. But if your marks drop, you _will_ be writing my essays, with interest. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Go find an empty classroom, then.”

“Good night, Professor Snape.”

“Good night, Pavlova.”

Hermione left him in there to tend to the potions on the counter and ducked into the empty loo to change back into herself. When she was put together, she found an empty room in the dungeons and knocked out her Charms essay.


	22. High Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I somehow missed posting this with the rest of the story and didn't realize it for a month and a half. I'm so sorry!

After Thursday’s Charms class, Hermione arranged with Flitwick to meet Fridays after dinner for dueling practice. From there she could take her Polyjuice, attend the Order meeting, and spend Saturday working on her homework and Wolfsbane Potion. Sunday was for schoolwork and the map she needed to make for the Dark Lord. She would deal with Death Eater meetings as they came; she charmed a small bag to hold both Polyjuice variants and a set of Ivana’s robes, then layered on an illusion spell so all anyone would see when they looked inside was tampons. To complete the illusion she settled a box of tampons at the top, so anyone reaching in would feel them as well as see them.

Friday night was the first Order meeting of fall term. Ivana Pavlova had no curfew and was not restricted to the castle, so after Flitwick’s dueling practice, Hermione took the second Polyjuice variant, strolled outside the gates, and Apparated to the porch of Order headquarters. She entered quietly, so as not to wake Mrs. Black, and made her way down to the kitchen.

“Ivana,” Remus said when she walked in. “Good to see you again.”

“And you,” she said. “Oh - for my Potions Mastery, I’m working on making the Wolfsbane more cost-effective and easier to brew.”

“Are you really? And Severus agreed to that?”

She shrugged. “He didn’t say a word against it, just started helping me figure out how to make it happen. I may need some blood from you, so I can see when I get something other than mud.”

“Just let me know.” He smiled tiredly.

“How have things been with the werewolf packs?”

He sighed. “They can tell I’ve been living among wizards, so they’re distrustful. Can’t say I blame them.”

“Ah, you’ll get there,” Black said. “If Pavlova there can fool Voldemort into giving her the Dark Mark, you can convince some werewolves to accept you.”

“Encouraging. Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Hermione sat and made idle chitchat with the two of them while the rest of the Order trickled in. At long last, Dumbledore called the meeting to a start. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, Sturgis Podmore was arrested Tuesday morning,” he said. “He was placed under the Imperius Curse. It is vital that when changing guard or meeting with one another, we ask questions only we know the answers to. For example, Molly may ask Arthur what pet name he calls her.” Both Weasleys blushed.

“Now. Kingsley, where are we with the manhunt for Sirius?”

“The Ministry just received an anonymous tip that he’s in Bora Bora.”

“Tonks, Moody, how is Auror support coming?”

“Most of the old guard are on board,” Moody said. “They know I’m paranoid, not delusional.”

“My age is more split,” Tonks said. “Some of us believe, but maybe two-thirds are following Fudge.”

“Hestia?”

“Fudge and Umbridge have been corresponding daily. He’s going to make her High Inquisitor, give her even more power at Hogwarts.”

And so it went, Dumbledore calling on people and them telling him what was happening. Snape went just before Ivana, who said, “The Dark Lord has asked me to find a way for them to enter Hogwarts without drawing attention. I believe he plans to attack.”

“How long has he given you?”

“June.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Continue to put him off as long as you safely can. We’ll talk more after the meeting. Arthur?”

When the meeting broke up, Hermione followed Dumbledore to the sitting room. Without preamble, he said, “I would like you to begin teaching Harry Potter to duel.”

“Um. Why?”

“It will be useful,” he said blandly. “And you will not draw as much attention as Professor Flitwick would.”

“Why do you think he’d meet with me? And where would we go, anyway?”

“I will ask it of him. As for where….on the seventh floor, there is a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Across from it is a room known as the Room of Requirement. I do not know precisely how it works, but it is capable of conjuring whatever you desire when you pace in front of it.”

“Are you asking Ivana or Hermione?”

“Hermione.” 

“Hermione’s a Slytherin,” she reminded him. “That’s going to attract attention.”

“Less than Ivana would,” he countered. Hermione conceded the point with a jerk of her head. “Miss Granger, the war may depend on Mr. Potter learning to hold his own in a fight. I’m asking you to please help.”

Hermione scowled. “One day your guilt trips are going to stop working on me.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” she said grudgingly.

“Thank you.” Some of the tight lines around his eyes eased. “When would work for you?”

She thought. “I’m dueling with Flitwick Fridays, but spending the weekend as Ivana. Um...he has Quidditch practice and Umbridge’s detentions during the week. Sunday night, maybe? After dinner?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I’ll send him a note to meet you then, on the seventh floor opposite Barnabas the Barmy.”

“Okay then.” She glanced at the mantle clock. “Ugh, ten already?”  
***  
Saturday was spent doing homework and steadily working through the calculations needed to create the steps to brew the Wolfsbane variant. The formulae were deceptively simple, and Hermione wished she hadn’t been so confident going into it. As fiddly as they were, though, Snape made no comment about them when he looked over her work that night except to say that they could begin brewing the next day. Once she left, she wandered to the seventh floor and paced in front of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to dance. A door materialized in the wall, and she opened it to find a four-poster in a small room. She slept there.

It was just a shame the success didn’t carry over into the next day. She melted three successive cauldrons, each time getting just slightly farther in the brewing process. Snape helped her figure out where she went wrong each time.

“You don’t seem angry,” she said the second time.

He shook his head. “In class, with directions followed every day without mishap, a melted cauldron is a result of carelessness. While completing your Mastery, it is a sign that you’re learning. As long as you figure out where you went wrong, melted or exploded cauldrons are truly not an issue, provided you shield yourself in time.” He eyed her sidelong. “I myself melted several dozen cauldrons while completing my Mastery.”

Hermione was startled into laughter.

She turned back into herself before dinner. She had expected snide questions about where she’d been from her yearmates, but soon realized she needn’t have worried: none of them seemed to have even noticed she hadn’t stepped foot in the common room since Friday.

After dinner she climbed to the seventh floor. On her third pass of Barnabas’ hallway, a door materialized. She yanked it open to reveal a large room with bookshelves around the edges and a dueling platform in the middle. She wandered over to the bookshelves to read the titles: _Jinxes for the Jinxed; Curses for the Cursed; Hexes for the Hexed; A Beginner’s Guide to Shielding; Protego! And Other Spells._ All of the books had to do with some aspect of defense. Hermione pulled down one entitled _Practical Physical Defense_ and flipped to the first page. A line drawing showed one man flipping another over his back and onto the ground.

“Er - Granger?”

Hermione looked up from the book. “Hello, Potter,” she said calmly.

He was standing, one hand on the knob of the open door. “Did - er - did Dumbledore tell you why we’re meeting here? You _are_ meeting Dumbledore, right?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Close the door and get in here.”

“Is this a trick?”

She rolled her eyes again. “Yes, I got Dumbledore to write you a note asking you to come here so I could play a prank,” she said dryly. “Will you close the door so we can talk?”

Potter finally stepped inside. The door shut with a small click.

“So. Dumbledore asked me to work with you on dueling.”

“Why you?” was Potter’s first question.

“I’ve been working with Flitwick since last year,” she explained. “And, hello, Slytherin Mudblood. If I wasn’t good at protecting myself I’d be dead by now.”

Potter nodded slowly. “So what now?”

“Now,” she said, drawing her wand slowly, “we duel. Let’s see what you can do, Potter.”

He was nimble and quick, with a strong Shield Charm and stronger Disarming Spell. He also had a tendency to react instead of think, which meant it was easy enough for Hermione to shoot a Stunning Spell far enough to his right that he would jump left and follow up with a Disarming Spell that hit where he’d just jumped into. He looked surprised to be Disarmed.

Hermione caught his wand neatly and held it out to him, handle-first. “So, a couple things I noticed….”  
***  
She began sleeping in the Room of Requirement, which she quickly found could create a passageway to anywhere in the castle, or even connect to one of the passages leading outside of Hogwarts. She kept back in Death Eater meetings, doing as she was asked and managing to appear a devoted servant. During the week, she was Hermione Granger: top student, Flitwick’s protege, Slytherin Mudblood. Over the weekend, however, she turned into Ivana Pavlova: Death Eater, Order member, spy, and Potions Mastery hopeful. 

It was absolutely exhausting. If she didn’t have the Room of Requirement, which responded to her every need and gave her privacy, she wasn’t sure she would make it through the year. The Room gave her Potions texts, Defense texts, dummies for target practice, even mannequins with which she could practice the moves in _Practical Physical Defense_. She started incorporating throws and holds into dueling practice with Potter.

Outside the Room was a different story. Her dormmates had noticed her things steadily disappearing from the dorm, and badgered her about the boyfriend she had to have; was he a Gryffindor? Another Mudblood? Or - horror of horrors - a _blood traitor?_ She did her best to ignore them.

Defense class remained dreadfully dull. The Hogwarts grapevine informed them all that Umbridge had no interest in teaching them the spells that would be on the OWL, and so Hermione practiced in secret using a standards list found in the Room of Requirement. Meanwhile, her other classes piled on the homework, and if Snape had not excused her from his essays she would have drowned under the workload. As it was, she was barely keeping up, and her marks were beginning to slip. When McGonagall handed back an essay with an ‘E’ and a “Not up to your usual standards”, Hermione wanted nothing more than to stand up and scream at her that the Dark Lord had put her under the Cruciatus two hours before she’d written it, and just by writing it she really _had_ exceeded expectations.

The first Monday of October, a notice went up, courtesy of Umbridge and Filch.

_**\----------BY ORDER OF----------  
THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS** _

All Student Organizations, Societies, Teams, Groups, and Clubs are henceforth disbanded.  
An Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students.  
Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge).  
No Student Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club may exist without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor.  
Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club that has not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled.

 _The above is in accordance with  
Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four._  
Signed:  
Dolores Jane Umbridge  
High Inquisitor

The same day as the notice, Umbridge inspected Potions. It was the first inspected lesson Hermione had been in, and she tried not to look too eager to see the carnage left in the wake of what would surely be an irritable Professor Snape butting heads with an irascible Umbridge.

She didn’t succeed very well; rather than loitering in the loo until just before lessons were about to start, she showed up in the hallway early enough to hear Malfoy bragging, “...she knows my father really well, he’s always popping in and out of the MInistry. It’ll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor are allowed to keep playing, don’t you think?”

Hermione met Potter’s angry gaze and shook her head minutely.

Malfoy went on, “I mean, if it’s a question with the Ministry, I don’t think they’ve got much chance. From what my father says, they’ve been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years, and as for Potter - my father says-”

“Nobody gives a good goddamn what your father says, Malfoy,” Hermione snapped. “Have an original thought or shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”

Malfoy swung around to face her. “Think you can take me, do you, Granger? Like you took your parents, or those Muggles you let paw all over you?”

Hermione felt at once very hot and very cold. She was vaguely aware of Potter moving a few steps toward her, and her housemates moving away quickly, but that was put in the part of her mind not directly focused on Malfoy, who now looked as though he thought he may have made a mistake.

Without her conscious direction, her body hurtled toward him. The next thing she knew, people were shouting, an arm was around her neck (and no matter how she struggled, she couldn’t get free), and someone was screaming broken invectives and swears. Crabbe and Goyle moved in front of Malfoy, muscles flexing.

Another set of hands grabbed her and pulled her back. Hermione was spluttering now, from anger as much as lack of air, and when it finally occurred to her to go for her wand, it had been removed from her robes.

“What,” said a voice, “is going on here?”

The hallway froze. Hermione realized it was her screaming and spluttering incoherently and stopped, breathing heavily around the arm at her neck.

“Er,” Lavender Brown said. “Granger tried to attack Malfoy?”

“He deserved it, sir,” Parvati Patil said earnestly.

“He did,” Bulstrode put in, completely unexpectedly.

Snape’s eyebrows rose at that. “Mr. Malfoy,” he said, “what exactly did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Malfoy whined. “She’s the one who went all addled.”

“Miss Parkinson?”

“He - er” - she visibly hesitated, then took a deep breath and plunged in - “he asked if Granger thought she could take him like she took the Muggles who - er-”

“Enough, Miss Parkinson,” Snape said sharply. He looked at Malfoy. “Is that true?”

Malfoy quailed under his gaze. Now that Snape seemed to have the situation well in hand, the hands let go of her cautiously. She turned to see Potter and Ron Weasley.

“Couldn’t let you get torn apart by Crabbe and Goyle,” Potter muttered, offering her wand handle-first.

She took it. “Thanks. I think.”

“I’m waiting, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said, eyes drilling into his.

“It doesn’t matter, _she’s_ the one who-”

“A week’s detention,” Snape announced, “and if you keep avoiding the question it will be a month.”

Malfoy sulked. “...Yes,” he muttered.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said slowly, “and the rest of you. If I hear of _anyone_ bringing that up again, to _anybody_ in the school, you will all be pickling rat brains for a month. Malfoy, stay after class.” His eyes swept over them all, stopping on Hermione, standing nearly in the Gryffindor line where Potter and Weasley had dragged her. “Inside, all of you.”

When they were all seated with their copies of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ out on their desks, Snape said, “You will notice that we have a guest with us today,” and gestured at Umbridge, sitting in the corner with a clipboard. He continued, “We are continuing with our Strengthening Solutions today. You will find your mixtures as you left them last lesson. If correctly made, they should have matured well over the weekend - instructions” - he waved his wand - “are on the board.”

The Strengthening Solution was fairly simple after all the work Hermione had done in the past few months. For the first half hour, it was straightforward to brew as Snape stalked about the room criticizing each person’s potion; then Umbridge stood and waddled over to where Snape was bent over Dean Thomas’s cauldron. Hermione, and the rest of the class, listened in.

“Well, the class seems fairly advanced for their level,” Umbridge said to Snape’s back. “Thought I question whether it is advisable to teach them a potion like the Strengthening Solution; I think the Ministry would prefer it if that was removed from the syllabus.”

Hermione hid a smile as she added in her griffin claw. Insinuating he had mucked up teaching was guaranteed to get Snape’s hackles up.

“Now, how long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?” she asked brightly.

“Fourteen years.”

Hermione stirred three times clockwise as Umbridge asked, “You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“But you were unsuccessful?”

Hermione could hear the derision when Snape said, “Obviously.”

“And you have applied regularly for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the school, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has consistently refused to appoint you?”

“I suggest you ask him.”

“Oh, I shall.”

“I suppose this is relevant?” Anyone who had not spent nearly a year under his personal tutelage would have been hard-pressed to hear the disgust in his voice, covered as it was by anger, but Snape had taught her Occlumency, the basics of spying, and post-NEWT Potions. She knew him a bit better than the other students.

“Oh, yes. Yes, the Ministry wants a thorough understanding of teacher’s - er - backgrounds.”

She turned to Parkinson. “Tell me, dear, how would I prepare dandelion roots in order to brew a Swelling Solution?”

“Chopped into one-inch cubes,” Parkinson said shortly.

“No marks again, then, Potter,” Snape said, and assigned him an essay on how and why he’d gotten the potion wrong.

Hermione hid for the rest of the day, slipping into her seat just as the bell rang and bolting off as soon as class was over. Malfoy was sure to want revenge, and she wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. She went down to dinner just long enough to grab a sandwich and returned to the Room of Requirement, where she sat on the couch and chewed mechanically.

Her parents. It was funny, but she hadn’t had the time to think on them since the latest nightmare had begun. Macnair’s treatment of her had made her think of them, but she’d banished them from her thoughts as soon as she’d been able to - there had just been too much going on for her to be able to dwell on the past.

There was too much going on now, for that matter, but Malfoy had just revealed it to the entire school, so she was going to have to deal with it. She laid her head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. 

The whole school would have heard by now. It didn’t have to do with who she was dating, so they may lose interest quickly - but it had to do with sex, which almost guaranteed it would stick around a while. The school knew she was a whore now. She’d just have to hex anyone who said something to her.

And as for Malfoy, maybe she could get Potter to talk the Weasley twins into setting their sights on him.

“Thought we might find you here.”

She jerked her head up. Potter and the Weasleys were standing by the door. She hadn’t even heard them come in.

“Potter. Weasleys.” Her tone wasn’t welcoming, exactly, but it also wasn’t hostile. It was the best she could do at the moment.

“You sleepin’ in here tonight?” one of the twins asked, looking around at the bed.

Hermione sighed. “I sleep here every night, now,” she said, sounding weary even to her own ears. “With the war on, the dormitory isn’t the safest place.” It wasn’t quite true, but it was true enough.

Ginny winced. “We heard about Malfoy.”

“The whole school has, by now,” she said. “Fred, George, think I could talk you into avenging my honor?”

“Already started,” one of them said promptly. “One of your seventh-year prefects is furious with him, so we got her on our side.”

“I was surprised Snape got mad,” Ron said. “Usually Malfoy gets away with murder.”

Hermione shook her head. “Snape found out a few years ago,” she said. “He’s been looking out for me since.” At their flabbergasted looks, she quirked a smile and said, “He’s a right bastard, but he’s - well, he’s still my Head of House, and he takes that seriously.”

“May wonders never cease,” a twin muttered.

They stayed in awkward silence for a few moments before Ron said, “Well. Good talk.”

“Good talk,” Hermione echoed.

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

They left, and Hermione went back to her brooding.

Hermione was called in to Umbridge’s office the very next day. “Have a seat, dear,” Umbridge said when she knocked on the frame.

She took a seat in a chair riotously decorated with flowers. Behind Umbridge’s desk, plates on the wall displayed painted kittens playing with each other. The walls had been charmed a suffocating pink. Every surface was covered with doilies. All in all, it looked nothing like it had under Lockhart, and Hermione was ridiculously grateful to be spared more reminders than the room itself brought.

“Tea?” Umbridge offered. A tea set on her desk was steaming.

“No, thank you.”

Umbridge smiled in what she must have thought was a warm manner. “Miss Granger, dear, I’m afraid I’ve been hearing some rather nasty rumors about your home life, and was hoping you could clear them up for me.”

“Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape already know,” Hermione said instantly. “Dumbledore’s the one who told the Muggle police and the Ministry of Magic. Auror Tonks came and talked to me last year.”

“Even so,” Umbridge said, still with that horribly fake smile.

“Ma’am, I’d rather not discuss it,” Hermione said.

“I can understand that, dear, but I’m afraid I must insist. After Mr. Malfoy announced it to the school, I find myself at a loss for how to handle the situation. I understand he is serving detention with Professor Snape for the foreseeable future, but that does not mean the rest of the school is facing the same sanction.”

At least he was getting punished for it. Still, though - “Professor Umbridge,” Hermione said, attempting a smile of her own, “as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s an intensely uncomfortable and _private_ subject.”

“Hermione, dear, I cannot help if you don’t talk to me. When did it begin?”

Umbridge was clearly not to be dissuaded. Hermione gave in and told her what she wanted to know.

On 2 November, a new notice went up in the common rooms:

**_\----------BY ORDER OF----------  
The Minister of Magic_  
The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts will henceforth have supreme authority over all punishments, sanctions, and removal of privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and the power to alter such punishments, sanctions, and removal of privileges as may have been ordered by other staff members.**

**_The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-five._  
Signed,  
Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, Etc., Etc.**

Unsurprisingly, by the end of the day Potter and the Weasleys had been banned from Quidditch. Potter was incredibly angry when he showed up for their weekly dueling lessons, and it showed in his casting. Hermione worked out her own anger at the same time. It was their most violent, colorful duel yet.

The Weasley twins winked at her in the hallways the same day Malfoy was walking bowlegged. A week later, they grinned at her when Malfoy landed in the hospital wing. The Slytherin prefect they’d recruited gave her a thumbs-up when he was stuffed into the Vanishing Cabinet on the sixth floor. Over the next few months, Malfoy suffered quite a few “accidents” and injuries. To a lesser extent, so did Crabbe and Goyle.

Christmas break was upon them quickly. Potter and the Weasleys disappeared two days before the end of term, with special dispensation from Dumbledore - Arthur had been attacked by the Dark Lord’s snake Nagini, and Potter had seen it somehow. In the private lab, Snape was spitting mad: Dumbledore had asked him to teach Potter Occlumency. Hermione bit her tongue and tried to figure out why her most recent attempt at Wolfsbane had, quite literally, gone up in smoke.


	23. Give Her Hell

Hermione spent her holiday time as Ivana, working on her potion or conferring with the Order or the Dark Lord as necessity dictated. She remained in the castle, sleeping in the Room of Requirement as usual. For Christmas, she bought Snape a scarf in a muted dark green and sent it to him by owl. Neither of them mentioned it, but he wore it to the Order meetings. Arthur was expected to remain in hospital for several weeks, and so didn’t attend meetings, but the rest of the Order were keen to discuss Potter’s apparent propensity for viewing events through the eyes of the snake.

The Dark Lord was thoroughly displeased that he had yet to make it inside the Department of Mysteries. He tortured several of the Death Eaters as punishment, and then Hermione for failing to find him a way inside the castle before the new year. Hermione bit her tongue and didn’t remind him that he’d given her until June.

She returned to Hogsmeade feeling very unwell. Her mask stashed inside the bag that held her Polyjuice and changes of clothes, she staggered to the castle. Though she wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed, she had to check on the goddamn Wolfsbane. She very heartily wished she’d told Dumbledore to go fuck himself when he’d first suggested she spy on Macnair.

The Wolfsbane was simmering gently in its cauldron. Nothing had exploded or melted in her absence, which was a relief. A shimmering green mist and the smell of peppermint rose from the potion.

If she’d done it right, it would take another week to mature, with periodic stirring to bring up any debris at the bottom. Then it would be ready to test - she needed to get blood from Lupin, and look up howl to check for lycanthropy, and finish the essays set over break, and complete the map of the school, and do a hundred other things before break ended on 13 January.

She did manage to get most of them done before the store refilled with students, which she counted as a personal accomplishment on par with fooling the Dark Lord.

The same day school started up again, the Dark Lord broke out ten followers that had been in Azkaban since the previous war. Hermione attended a party that night where the entertainment was the torture and murder of a Muggle family with four children no older than eight. Hermione didn’t participate - apparently the Dark Lord remembered her telling him that she got no joy from causing pain - but she did have to watch. Drunk on the alcohol a bartender had brought, the Death Eaters dared each other to new heights. It took all of Hermione’s self-control to not vomit at some of what they did, or blow her cover by cursing them all into nonexistence. The gathering didn’t break up until nearly five in the morning.

Hermione threw up the moment she Apparated to Hogsmeade. Trembling and sick, she got to the Room of Requirement, showered, and changed. She couldn’t sit still and paced for over an hour, regularly running to the toilet to be sick, before she gave up and went to Pomfrey, claiming the stress of OWLs was making it impossible for her to sleep or keep down water. Pomfrey clucked and fussed and gave her a Draught of Peace and Pepper-Up Potion, and Hermione left feeling like she may be able to keep down dry toast.

The _Daily Prophet_ reported on the breakout, of course, but also on the death of Broderick Bode, who had been strangled by Devil’s Snare in St. Mungo’s. The death of an Unspeakable while the Dark Lord was trying to get inside the department left a bad taste in Hermione’s mouth. So, too, did the newest Educational Decree:

**_\----------BY ORDER OF----------  
The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts_  
Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach.  
 _The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six._  
Signed:  
Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor**

The school had had a field day with that one; the language was so broad it left no room for teachers to tell students off for ignoring lessons in favor of playing Exploding Snap. Lee Jordan, a seventh-year Gryffindor, had made the rather foolish decision to point that out to Umbridge, and received a month of her feared detentions for it.

Two days after the Decree had been posted, Hermione put a bit of Lupin’s blood into a silver bowl. It hissed and smoked, confirming that it was from a werewolf. She ladled a bit of the potion into the vial holding the blood, capped it, and waited. Ten minutes later, she poured the now-sky-blue blood into the bowl.

It didn’t smoke.

She literally jumped for joy. She’d _done_ it. She’d created an alternative Wolfsbane Potion.

Snape looked up from where he was sprinkling chopped unicorn hair into a cauldron. “Good news, then?”

“It worked!” she cried. “It _worked!_ ”

“Congratulations,” Snape said. “Now we must merely test the toxicity, determine the dose and application method, create-”

“I know,” Hermione interrupted him. “But Professor Snape, it _worked._ ”

“Do not interrupt me,” Snape snapped.

“Sorry,” Hermione said, grinning foolishly at him.

Snape glanced at the clock. “You have Defense in fifteen minutes. I would suggest you change.”

“It’s that late?” Hermione cried, and ran from the room.

Over the next few weeks, Hermione worked feverishly on the potion. Every spare minute was dedicated to testing the potion against the strips charmed to behave as humans would. The potion destroyed the lycanthropy markers even in very small quantities, but it was so toxic that it also snuffed out the light indicating life. Diluting it with anything - water, milk, tea, acetone, dragon’s blood - caused explosions. After three weeks, Hermione returned to the potion itself, determined to see this through.

Her second attempt at the potion finished brewing on Valentine’s Day. It erased the lycanthropy marker without “killing” the strips. When she tested it on a new vial of Lupin’s blood, there was no color change, and it didn’t smoke when it came into contact with the silver bowl.

“Now comes the hard part,” Snape said. “Animal testing. Congratulations, Pavlova, it’s time to make some lycanthropic monkeys.”

That’s exactly what they did. Hermione brewed Wolfsbane for Lupin, with Snape double-checking the final product to ensure its quality and potency. During the next full moon, they released twenty-six rhesus monkeys into the room Lupin was transforming in. In the morning, they brought the monkeys back to the lab in Hogwarts. They were just lucky the full moon was on a Saturday, so they could get the monkeys back into Hogwarts without either of them missing classes. Students saw them bringing in the monkeys; one seventh-year with ambitions of becoming a Healer told the others it was how they’d begun to test new potions, and so Pavlova had clearly succeeded, at least in part. The news spread like wildfire.

Most unusually, Snape offered extra credit to his upper class. They were going to need more of the alternative Wolfsbane than they could brew alone, and so Snape was offering to bump up his seventh-year NEWT students’ next essay grade by one letter if they brewed it in class. Everyone jumped on the offer, and by the end of the day, they had sixteen new cauldrons of the potion that Snape floated to the lab to mature for a week.

The day after the extra potions had been brewed, Professor Trelawney was fired. From what Hermione heard of the incident, it was quite a scene, with Dumbledore appointing a centaur as the new Divination teacher just before Umbridge appointed another of her Ministry friends. Hermione caught sight of the centaur a few times; he was nice enough to look at, but the way some of the other girls talked, he may as well have been a male model.

The same day the students’ potions finished maturing, the _Quibbler_ printed an interview in which Potter went into great detail about what had happened when he’d met the Dark Lord the previous June. By the end of their first class, Education Decree Number Twenty-Seven had gone up, announcing that any student found with a copy of the _Quibbler_ would be expelled. Hermione snorted when she saw that - banning an article in a school full of teenagers - really? All she’d done was make sure everybody would have read it by the end of the day.

During the next full moon, all but three of the monkeys died. Of the remaining three, two had retained their minds. Both of them had taken the potion orally, and when their dosages were divided by their weight, they both came out to roughly a half-ounce per kilogram only on the day of the full moon. The third had been given the potion topically and fully transformed.

Snape said, “If they survive the next two full moons without losing their minds, the Potions Board will approve it for human trials.”

Hermione did the math. “That’ll be May.”

“It is what it is. You’ve done well, Pavlova.”

Any compliment from him was something to be treasured. “Thank you, Professor Snape.”

The next day was Saturday. Hermione went to the Room of Requirement in the afternoon to meet with Potter, as she usually did. He’d gotten noticeably better, and by the end of the three hours they spent inside the Room, both of them were usually soaked with sweat and sporting minor injuries.

But this time, barely half an hour into their practice, the door burst open. Both of them froze and looked over.

Umbridge was standing there. “ _So,_ ” she said menacingly. “Potter, Granger, come with me.”

“Er - Professor?” Hermione said uncertainly.

“You heard me,” Umbridge snarled, brandishing her wand at them.

Looking askance at each other, Potter and Hermione did as they were bid. She led them to a stone gargoyle on the third floor and half-sang, “Fizzing Whizbee.” The gargoyle jumped aside, revealing a spiral staircase moving rather like a Muggle escalator. Umbridge gestured them both to step onto it.

The staircase ended at a polished wood door with a griffin knocker. Umbridge didn’t bother knocking; instead, she shoved the door open and strode in confidently. Baffled, Hermione followed her into Dumbledore’s office.

It hadn’t changed much since she’d been in here last. The largest difference was in the people who currently filled the room: McGonagall, Shacklebolt, a silver-haired wizard, Percy Weasley, and a man Hermione placed as Cornelius Fudge after a moment’s thought.

“Well,” Fudge said, “well, well, well. Potter, I expect you know why you’re here?”

“Er - no,” Potter said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No,” he repeated stubbornly, chin jutted out.

Fudge colored. “And you - what’s your name?”

“Hermione Granger,” she said. “And no, I don’t.”

“So you have no idea,” he said sarcastically, “why Professor Umbridge has brought you here, to this office? You are not aware that you have broken any school rules?”

“No,” they chorused.

“Or MInistry decrees?”

“No,” they said, again together.

“So it’s news to you, is it,” Fudge said, angry now, “that all student groups have been disbanded?”

“No,” they said.

“So you decided to continue your little club, knowing it was against the rules?” Fudge demanded triumphantly.

“But it wasn’t!” Hermione protested.

“Oho, but it was, little missy! Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four clearly states that all student groups must have permission from Professor Umbridge to form! I suppose you will both have to be expelled….”

“Er,” Hermione said. “That’s going to be difficult to do, since we weren’t violating Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four.”

She saw a slight smile on Dumbledore’s face.

“No?” Umbridge snapped, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the office.

“No,” Hermione said blandly. “That decree defined student organizations, societies, groups, teams, and clubs as regular meetings of three or more people. Potter and I only make two.”

Fudge stared at her disbelievingly. Weasley froze, gawking. Shacklebolt and the unfamiliar man remained poker-faced. Umbridge, however-

Umbridge grabbed Hermione by the shoulders and started shaking her. Startled and jostled, Hermione fumbled getting her wand out - but it didn’t matter, because Umbridge leapt away, waving her hands in the air.

“I must ask you,” Dumbledore said, still pointing his wand, “to not manhandle my students, Dolores.”

“Really, Dolores, keep your head,” Fudge said.

“I - yes, you’re right, Minister,” Umbridge said. “I forgot myself….”

For perhaps fifteen seconds, they all looked at each other. Nobody seemed quite sure where to go from there.

Dumbledore broke the silence. “Well! If that’s all, Cornelius, I believe your office is busy as always, and so I shan’t keep you any longer.” He smiled benignly.

Fudge crammed a lime-green bowler hat on his head, grumbled something, and threw Floo powder into the fire. The rest of his retinue followed him out.

“Dolores,” Dumbledore said, “allow me to remind you that the contract you signed upon becoming the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor expressly prohibits laying hands on students except in cases of immediate danger, and physically harming students in any scenario is grounds for termination.”

“Is that a threat?” Umbridge growled.

“Not at all,” Dumbledore said, looking mildly surprised. “Merely a reminder.”

Umbridge stalked from the office, slamming the door behind her. McGonagall sank into a chair and rubbed her eyes.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, would either of you care for a lemon drop?”

“No, thanks,” they said together.

“Miss Granger, it was very clever of you to remember the definition laid out in that decree.”

“You saw it too,” she accused.

“Naturally,” he said easily. “However, I believe the next Decree that is passed will prohibit dueling groups. Mr. Potter, I’m sure you have plenty of homework to be doing?”

Potter knew a dismissal when he heard one. He left.

“Have a seat, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said. She sat next to McGonagall. “Your thoughts on Potter?”

“Better than before,” she said. “It’ll still take luck to keep him from getting killed.”

McGonagall flinched at that. Hermione went on, “He needs to stop relying so much on instinct, and he needs to stop worrying about hurting his opponent. Fix those and he’ll be much better.”

“Are you able to help with those?”

“Maybe the instinct, but not the other. I’d have thought Diggory would do that.”

McGonagall looked appalled. “Miss Granger!”

“Sorry, Professor,” she said. ”But it’s true. Maybe it won’t be an issue with the Death Eaters, but continuing to fight me isn’t going to help him.”

“Is it helping you?”

“Not really. I’ve been working with Flitwick, remember?”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore seemed deep in thought.

Hermione’s leg seared. She stood. “I need to go.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Be careful.”

Hermione flashed a ghost of a smile. “I always am.”

She could feel McGonagall’s curious eyes on her as she dashed from the office.

She drank the Polyjuice variant in the tunnel the Room provided for her, and changed there as well. The tunnel let out in what seemed to be the basement of a sweets shop, and Hermione Apparated from there ten minutes later.

An hour after her first Apparition, she staggered and stumbled her way back to the castle as Ivana Pavlova. She ached all over; the Dark Lord had been displeased with her map, and made it known. She debated going to Pomfrey, but instead limped to Snape’s office.

“Pavlova?” he said when she knocked on his open doorframe. “What happened?”

Hermione closed the door behind her. “Are we…?” She tapped her ear. Even her fingernails hurt.

“We can talk safely.”

“Don’t suppose you know anything to help with the Cruciatus?”

“Sit.”

Hermione gingerly made her way over to the chair in front of his desk while he opened a desk drawer. “You’ve never asked for anything before,” he said, eyes steady on her.

“I never hurt this bad before.” Hermione swallowed. “He didn’t like my map. Said I hadn’t marked the walls that pretend to be doors. I didn’t think I should, since they don’t really exist, but….”

“He still doesn’t know who you are?”

She shook her head. “You taught me well.”

“It takes a certain amount of innate talent to learn Occlumency to that extent,” Snape said. “Potter has none of it.”

“So it’s been difficult.”

“To say the least.” He sighed. “Do you have homework?”

She shook her head and immediately regretted it. “Is it weird that homework doesn’t mean that much to me anymore?”

He snorted and rummaged in his bottom drawer. “If it did, I’d want you in the locked ward of St. Mungo’s.”

He pulled out a bottle and two glasses. “I know you’re underage,” he said, “but truly, nothing works as well against the Cruciatus as alcohol. The Cruciatus works by overstimulating the nervous system, and if it remains overstimulated for too long muscle fatigue sets in and capillaries constrict dangerously small, to say nothing of the difficulty nerves have in ceasing to fire. Alcohol depresses the nervous system and acts as a blood thinner.” He unscrewed the bottle and poured a small amount into each glass. “I have no desire to get you drunk, but in this case, Firewhiskey is actually medicinal. Vodka works best - the Muggles have made a type of vodka that is only five percent water - but I can’t stand the taste, so I have Firewhiskey.” He pushed one of the glasses over to her. “All at once. It’s going to hurt a bit.”

Hermione took a whiff of the drink and her eyes started to water. She swallowed it anyway.

Her mouth popped open and she tried to suck in air to cool off her mouth and throat. Snape refilled the glass with water and she chugged it.

“People drink that on _purpose?_ ” she choked out when she could feel her mouth again.

“You get used to it,” Snape said mildly, pouring her another measure. “ _Aguamenti._ ” The glass filled the rest of the way with water from Snape’s wand. “Sip that one,” he instructed, picking up his own glass.

Hermione picked up the glass and sipped cautiously. It didn’t burn at all this time, and it didn’t taste awful, either.

“There were potions created to fight the aftereffects,” Snape said. “I believe you brewed one of them over the summer. Most unfortunately, they all came with side effects that rendered them more harm than good, at least in my opinion. They were quite popular during the first war, but most Healers refused to use them and kept Firewhiskey on hand instead. The Order kept kegs of grain alcohol.” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “I always hoped I’d never have to drink again.”

“You don’t have to drink now,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yes, well. If you’re drinking, then I’m drinking.” Snape looked down at his desk. “First-year Hufflepuff essays. I always want a drink when I’m marking those.”

Hermione laughed.

The Easter holidays began that weekend, marking just six weeks until OWLs began. With that looming over them, the fifth-years all spent the break studying like mad. The teachers had set them an amount of homework ridiculous even by Ravenclaw standards, which stressed them even further.

The day the holiday ended, a notice went up in the Slytherin common room. Hermione didn’t see it herself, but Bulstrode told her during lunch that she had career consultations with Snape on Monday at three-forty-five.

“Career consultations?” she said blankly.

“Yes, Granger, _career consultations_ ,” she said. “Honestly, I know you don’t sleep with us anymore - I still want the story behind that, by the way - but try to keep up.” 

“Well - thanks for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” Bulstrode said, and went back to her conversation with Parkinson.

All through Muggle primary school, it seemed all anyone wanted to ask her was what she wanted to be when she grew up. Back then, she’d had so many ideas - doctor, solicitor, astronaut. Now, though, she had no idea. Maybe teaching; she was on track to get her Potions Mastery, she could take Snape’s place when he retired. Or she could just work in an apothecary, though her summer at Fortescue’s had made it very clear that customer service was not her strong suit.

The library held pamphlets on all sorts of careers, Hermione saw the next time she went in. She flipped through most of them and dismissed them. The few that caught her attention - Curse-Breaking, law enforcement, spell development - she read more thoroughly. She didn’t much fancy working for the British government, but she could always move elsewhere and work there.

The weekend of Easter holiday was a full moon. The three monkeys, now all on a mass-controlled oral dose, pulled through with their minds and bodies intact.

“Two months of three,” Snape said as they examined the monkeys, which they had Stunned in order to make them more manageable.

“They just need to make it one more,” Hermione said, hoping they would be fine.

Break ended too soon for anyone. Most of the fifth-years wished, at various volumes, for more time off. The seventh-years seemed more resigned to their fate and stared at their books at mealtimes.

Monday afternoon, Hermione had to leave Charms early to make it to her meeting with Snape. Goyle left his office just as she got there.

“Miss Granger,” Snape said. “Come in and have a seat.” When she was settled and the door closed, he continued, “This meeting is to determine what you are interested in doing with your life, and so which classes you will need to take the next two years. Have you any ideas?”

Hermione shifted. “Er - I was looking at Curse-Breaking, law enforcement, or spell development.”

Snape flicked through the stacks of pamphlets on his desk and pulled out three of them. “For Curse-Breaking and spell development, you’ll need Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Curse-breaking and law enforcement - that is, being an Auror - require Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. I would suggest Charms and Transfiguration, since those are useful in whatever you find yourself doing. Aurors require five NEWTs in any case. As it is, you’re averaging an ‘Outstanding’ in every class, and your likely OWL grades are just as high.”

He settled back in his chair. “Your grades this year are particularly impressive, with everything else you are doing,” he admitted. “You’ll have your Potions Mastery by the end of the year, and when this war is over it can be transferred into your own name. With that, any Potions NEWT requirement will likely be waived, and so I would suggest taking my NEWT class only if you wish to keep your skills up. McGonagall and Flitwick only take students who receive an ‘E’ or better on their OWLs.

“It is difficult to become an Auror. It is three years of schooling after Hogwarts, and nobody has been accepted for the past three years. Curse-Breaking is equally difficult, and requires you to have a thorough understanding of multiple schools of magical thought. Most spell developers focus on creating one type of spell - defensive spells, charms, transfigurations, and so on - and it can take years to create even one.

“I hope you already know all three professions have a very high mortality rate. You need to have a certain amount of self-preservation to survive...which we already know you lack.”

“Hey!” she protested.

Snape gave her a dark look. “You agreed to spy on the Death Eaters at _fifteen._ ”

Hermione tried to come up with a rebuttal and couldn’t.

“If you are set on one of those three paths and are unsure which one, you would need to take Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy. I would _suggest_ Potions, if only to keep you from getting out of practice. Six NEWT classes is as many as it is advisable to do. Have you any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well, then.” He put the pamphlets back on his desk. “That concludes your career consultation.”

She didn’t bother returning to Charms, since there were just five minutes before the end of class. Instead she headed for the Great Hall and an early dinner.

The bell rang as she reached the Entrance Hall. She hadn’t even finished crossing to the Great Hall before loud, excited sounds reached her ears, coming from the East Wing. She debated with herself - should she go see the cause of the commotion or just wait to hear about it during dinner?

She sighed, cursed her curious nature, and started toward the sound.

One of the Weasley twins skidded straight into her on the second floor, knocking her down and driving the wind from her lungs. “Sorry!” he yelled, and kept sprinting down the hallway.

Umbridge ran by on her short, stubby legs, wand out and pointed in the direction the Weasleys had disappeared in. She didn’t appear to even see Hermione getting to her feet, so focused was she on the twins.

Hermione followed her. Now she was _really_ curious as to what was happening.

They sprinted to the Entrance Hall. Umbridge stopped a few steps down the staircase, wand still out and pointed at the Weasley twins. Potter appeared next to Hermione. The Entrance Hall was ringed with what looked to be the entire school, ghosts and professors included. Floating above them all was Peeves, looking down at the Weasley twins standing alone in the middle of the ring.

“So!” Umbridge yelled. She continued in a more modulated tone, “So...you think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a swamp?”

“Pretty amusing, yeah,” one of the twins said, sounding supremely unconcerned.

Filch shoved some people out of the way to get to Umbridge. “I’ve got the form!” he said. “I’ve got the form and I’ve got the whips waiting...oh, let me do it now….”

“Very good, Argus,” she said, and looked back down. “You two are about to find out what happens to troublemakers in this school.”

“You know what? I don’t think we are. George, I think we’ve outgrown full-time education.”

“Yeah,” George said, “I’ve been feeling that way myself.”

“Time to test our talents in the real world, d’you reckon?”

“Definitely.”

They raised their wands together and chorused, “ _Accio brooms!_ ”

There was a loud crash off in the distance. Hermione instinctively looked for the noise, and that was the only thing that saved her. She ducked as the brooms, one trailing a heavy iron chain and peg, swooped by them to float by their owners. The chain clattered on the stones.

“We won’t be seeing you,” Fred said to Umbridge.

“Yeah, don’t bother to keep in touch.” 

They mounted their brooms and looked at the silent, assembled crowd. “If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs,” Fred said, “come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley - Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes! Our new premises!”

“Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they’re going to use our products to get rid of this old bat!” George pointed at Umbridge.

Umbridge shrieked in outrage. Fred and George kicked off and leveled out at fifteen feet. “Give her hell from us, Peeves,” Fred ordered.

Peeves saluted them. They turned and sped out the open front doors, into the sunset.


	24. Twenty Minutes to Go

By the next morning, Dumbledore had been removed from the school. By Educational Decree, Umbridge took power. Rumor had it that the Head’s office refused to open for her, and so she was forced to remain in the Defense professor’s office - once Filch had fitted a new door, since the Weasleys’ brooms had shattered the old one.

She had bigger problems than her office, though. The Weasley twins hadn’t left instructions on getting rid of the swamp that had once been a third-floor corridor, and Umbridge and Filch had no success in removing it. Eventually Filch was given the task of hurling students across while Umbridge turned her attention to other matters.

The Weasleys had sold rather a lot of product while they were still in school. Fireworks crowded the hallways, and none of the teachers lifted a finger to help Umbridge get them under control. Skiving Snackboxes - sweets laced with potions to make the eater ill until they took the antidote - were used so often Umbridge put four successive classes in detention. They insisted they were suffering from ‘Umbridge-itis’, and finally, Umbridge had to admit defeat and allow students to leave in droves.

Meanwhile, with Fred and George gone, the post of Trickster-in-Chief was vacant, and vacancies were made to be filled. Dungbombs and Stinkpellets were dropped to the point that no student would brave the corridors without a Bubble-Head Charm. One student slipped a niffler into Umbridge’s office, where it promptly tore the room apart in its search for shiny objects. Supposedly it had even attacked Umbridge’s fingers for the rings on them. Someone copied Hermione’s stunt of the previous year, putting up posters; their target was not Malfoy, but Umbridge. 

Peeves outshone even the most mischievous group of students. He upended tables, burst through blackboards, trapped Mrs. Norris inside suits of armor, toppled statues and vases, destroyed furniture, broke windows and lanterns, juggled burning torches over terrified students, followed Umbridge and made loud raspberry noises whenever she tried to speak, flooded the second floor, dropped a bag of tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall during lunch, and loosened anything fixed to the wall. The Bloody Baron was the only one who could control Peeves, and he didn’t care to bother.

Realizing she needed to get control, and fast, Umbridge deputized half of Slytherin house to the so-called “Inquisitorial Squad”, with the power to dock points and assign detentions. They were issued shiny silver pins in the shape of the letter ‘I’, which they were to wear at all times.

What Umbridge hadn’t considered was that by marking the Inquisitorial Squad, she had made them targets - or rather, by choosing to help Umbridge, they had made targets of themselves. Parkinson grew antlers, Warrington developed skin the consistency of corn flakes, Nott’s teeth grew down to scrape the floor, Malfoy’s head ballooned to match his ego. Not one Inquisitorial Squad member escaped unscathed, and by the end of the first week a good third of them had quit. For his part, Filch prowled the corridors with a horsewhip, ready and willing to flog miscreants, but there were so many pranksters he couldn’t catch even one. 

The mayhem wasn’t enough to distract the fifth-year students from the upcoming OWLs. They all coped with the stress in different ways: 

Ernie Macmillan interrogated people over how much they were studying. He was doing eight or nine hours a day, he would declare proudly to anyone doing less than eight. He would promptly spiral into a recounting of the time he’d spent studying each day of the previous week, or more than that week if nobody stopped him.

Malfoy spent his time bragging about how connections were more important to knowledge. “Father’s been friendly with the of the Wizarding Examinations Authority for years - we’ve had her round for dinner and everything-” and so on and so forth until someone said something to distract him.

Terry Boot took to laughing hysterically at the slightest provocation. More than once Lisa Turpin had to drag him to Pomfrey - literally, since he couldn’t move under his own power - to get a Calming Draught.

There was definite increase in explosions from the Gryffindor table, as Seamus Finnegan became so stressed he could barely float a feather without catching it on fire.

Hermione’s temper grew shorter as the OWLs drew nearer. Even Occluding as strongly as she could couldn’t block it all out, and after nearly every Death Eater meeting Snape dragged her to his office for a glass or two of Firewhiskey. The Order members noticed it, too, and she claimed it was just that the deadline given to her by the Dark Lord was fast approaching. She still didn’t know what to tell him.

Lupin approached her after the meeting. They chatted about the new Wolfsbane while the rest of them left, and then he told her of a passage that went from the Shrieking Shack to the Whomping Willow.

“He wants to get _inside_ ,” she said. “Not just onto the grounds.”

“There’s a passage that goes from the basement of Honeydukes to a statue on the third floor. To get into it from the castle, you tap it with your wand and say _Dissendium._ ”

“ _Dissendium_ ,” she repeated, committing it to memory. “Thank you.”

Lupin nodded once. “What does he intend to do with the information, do you know?”

“I can guess.”

She managed to not get tortured at the next Death Eater meeting. The Dark Lord was pleased that she’d found a way inside the castle, and before the deadline he’d given her.

In the lab, the three monkeys made it through their full moon safely. Hermione cheered, and Snape actually smiled. They spent the hours until breakfast filling out paperwork to take the potion to the next stage: actual testing. Werewolves were considered beasts, and so they had fewer restrictions on testing than humans or non-human creatures did. It was just _wrong._

That Monday marked one week until the beginning of OWL testing. They got their schedules during Transfiguration.

“As you can see,” McGonagall said, tapping the blackboard with her wand, “your OWLs are spread over two successive weeks. You will sit the theory exams in the mornings and the practice in the afternoons. Your practical Astronomy examination will, of course, take place at night.

“The most stringent Anti-Cheating Charms have been applied to your examination papers. Auto-Answer Quills, Remembralls, Detachable Cribbing Cuffs, and Self-Correcting Ink are all banned from the examination hall. Every year, there is at least one student who thinks that he or she can get around the Wizarding Examination Authority’s rules. Our new _headmistress_ ” - McGonagall looked disgusted at the word - “has asked the Heads of House to tell their students that cheating will be punished most severely. I’m sure Professor Snape has already said the same to you.”

He hadn’t, but it had been implied very strongly in their most recent Potions lesson, where he’d flung review questions at the class and sneered at anyone who had tried to look at their notes.

Dinner on the Sunday before their first exam, Theory of Charms, was subdued, to say the least. The younger years treated it as normal, but the fifth- through seventh-years were quiet. The sixth-years seemed to be doing it mostly out of respect and sympathy, while the seventh-years were studying for their NEWTs. Nott kept grabbing books out from under the table to check something. Parkinson and Bulstrode kept quizzing each other. Malfoy stared at his notes, face ashen. Hermione bolted her dinner and left for the Room of Requirement, which had kindly provided copies of old OWL exams for her perusal.

Breakfast the next morning was no better. Crabbe and Goyle kept trying to charm the salt cellars. Zabini charmed the pepper grinder and made them all sneeze. Parkinson and Bulstrode charmed the candles above their heads, dripping down hot wax.

The fifth- and seventh-years remained in the Entrance Hall after breakfast ended. At nine-thirty, they were called in class by class to take their seats. The House tables had been removed to make room for single-seat desks that faced McGonagall, who stood in front of the Head Table with an enormous hourglass. When they were settled and silent, she said, “You may begin,” and flipped the hourglass.

Hermione turned her paper over. _a) Give the incantation and b) Describe the wand movement required to Summon objects._

Hermione smiled in relief. She could do this.

The practical that afternoon she did just as well on. She made an eggcup do cartwheels, turned a rat orange, hovered a wineglass, cast a Cheering Charm on the examiner, and figured out which charms had been placed on a snuffbox. Beside her, Goyle managed to smash so much that the examiner had him cast the Cheering Charm on the rat, which was promptly strangled. The examiner had to cancel the charm before the rat was killed.

Next to that, Hermione felt she did quite well.

When she looked in her bag after dinner, a note had appeared. _The lab after dinner._. It wasn’t signed, but she knew Snape’s writing.

Rather than studying for her Transfiguration OWL the next day, she went to the lab after a quick stop in a loo to change. When she was inside with the door closed, Snape held up a sheaf of papers. “Permission for testing on human werewolves,” he informed her.

Her breath caught. “We’re really doing this.”

“ _You’re_ really doing this,” he corrected. “I just made sure you didn’t blow yourself up in the process.”

“Looked like I would for a while there.”

“Yes, it did.”

Hermione mock-sneered at him. He smirked back.

“This means that there will be press,” Snape said after a moment. “The Ministry will get involved, probably through Umbridge. Reporters will want to interview you. Even if it doesn’t work on human werewolves, it’s the closest anyone’s gotten to Wolfsbane since the original potion was created, and it’s so much simpler and cheaper that it’s a giant stride forward. Ivana Pavlova will become well-known.”

There was a warning in his voice. Hermione caught his meaning. “Then Ivana Pavlova will handle the press,” she said. “When the war’s over, she’ll vanish, never to be seen again. Perhaps a potions accident in a private lab.”

Snape inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You have your Transfiguration OWL tomorrow, I believe.”

“I do,” she said, and left.

The Transfiguration OWL went just as well as her Charms one had. Herbology was a bit of a disaster - she broke three pots and over-fertilized a Honking Daisy - but she felt she’d scraped at least an ‘Acceptable’. 

Thursday brought their Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL. Hermione barely needed to think to answer most of the questions, particularly the spell-related ones, and she breezed through the practical examination. Beside her, Ernie Macmillan tried to cast a Shield Charm and instead shot a rope of flame from his wand that streaked towards Hermione. She knocked it out of the way before she consciously registered what was happening, and got a few bonus points as a result.

Friday was Ancient Runes, her weakest subject. No sooner had she handed in her paper than she realized she’d mistranslated ‘ehwaz’ (partnership) as ‘eihwaz’ (defense). There was no chance to fix it.

Someone put another niffler in Umbridge’s office, as Hermione found out on her way back to the Room of Requirement. From the shrieks, it was trying to take off her leg.

She walked past.

The weekend was gorgeous. Monday’s exam was Potions, which Hermione wasn’t fussed about, and she had Tuesday off. It was a lucky break, because she spent most of the weekend talking with administrators from St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical maladies and Injuries. They were running the clinical trial of her potion, and had secured six human werewolves for the testing. For the Muggle-raised Hermione, six subjects didn’t seem like enough, but it was unusual in the Wizarding world to do any testing at all - usually the potions just hit the shelves. It was Muggle-borns who’d been pushing through the change.

The Potions OWL was more difficult than expected. There were so many questions with multiple possible answers, depending on how much was known, and Hermione had a difficult time differentiating between what Snape had taught the students and what she’d learned over the year in the private lab. She wrote a small essay for each question.

The practical was almost laughably easy. Even Neville Longbottom looked relieved when he left the room.

Tuesday she spent studying for Arithmancy and brewing the Wolfsbane variant for St. Mungo’s. They’d sent her the body masses in a letter that morning, so she could figure out how much they’d need.

Wednesday began with the Astronomy theory, followed by Arithmancy. Hermione left feeling she’d done fairly well.

That night was the Astronomy practical, so everyone spent dinner looking over their star charts. Hermione spent the evening and early night in a planetarium the Room of Requirement had created for her, and ascended to the Astronomy Tower at quarter to eleven to find the night cloudless, still, and reasonably warm. Two of the examiners, Marchbanks and Tofty, strolled among them once the exam itself began at eleven. The only sound was the creaking of telescopes and the scratching of quills. The quiet made Hermione tense.

An hour passed without incident, but as Hermione finished the constellation Sagittarius, a roar echoed over the grounds. She jerked out from behind her telescope, swapping her quill for her wand.

Tofty coughed softly. “Try to concentrate now, boys and girls.”

Hermione ignored him. There were lights on in Hagrid’s hut; had he been the one to bellow? Why?

“Ahem - twenty minutes to go,” said Tofty.

Hermione decided Hagrid could take care of himself and returned to her star chart. No sooner had she put in Sirius than a loud _BANG_ echoed out over the grounds. Nearly everybody ducked out from behind their telescopes to see what was happening, some so quickly they poked themselves in the eye.

Silhouetted by the light from the now-open door of Hagrid’s cabin, a massive figure was flailing about at six figures. From the jets of red light they were sending at him, they were attempting to Stun him. They didn’t seem to have an effect - apparently, Hagrid had inherited more than his size from his giantess of a mother. 

“Be reasonable, Hagrid!” a man cried, and Hagrid roared back, “Reasonable be damned, yeh won’ take me like this, Dawlish!”

Hagrid’s dog, as oversized as he was, leapt at one of the men attacking Hagrid. A Stunner hit him before he made contact. Hagrid roared, picked up the man responsible, and threw him. The man flew ten feet, hit the ground, and did not move again.

“Look!” squealed Parvati Patil, leaning over the crenellated wall and pointing down. The front doors had opened once more, spilling light onto the lawn. One long shadow moved across the grounds.

“Now, really!” Tofty said. “Only sixteen minutes left, you know!”

Nobody paid him any mind, all of them entirely transfixed on the drama playing out below them. The shadow was now yelling, “How dare you! How _dare_ you!” in McGonagall’s distinct voice. “Leave him alone! _Alone_ , I say! On what grounds are you attacking him? He has done nothing, nothing to warrant such-”

Four Stunners hit her full in the chest. A few people screamed as she was lifted off the ground, surrounded by an eerie red glow. She hit the ground hard halfway between the cabin and the castle.

“Galloping gargoyles!” Tofty yelled. “Not so much as a warning! Outrageous cowards!”

Hermione itched with the desire to do something. Her wand was in her hand; she had dropped her quill and drawn it again somewhere along the line, but she couldn’t remember when. At this range, though, she’d do more harm than good. All she could do was watch helplessly.

“COWARDS! RUDDY COWARDS! HAVE SOME O’ THAT - AN’ THAT -” Hagrid laid about him again. Two men fell, and Hagrid bent down. A moment later he straightened, the dog over his shoulders, and ran for the forest.

“Get him, get him!” Umbridge shrieked, but her last remaining helper was backing up so fast he tripped over one of his comrades. Umbridge shot one last Stunner at Hagrid but missed, and he disappeared into the shadows.

For a long minute, there was silence; then Tofty coughed. “Um...five minutes to go, everybody.”

When the exam was finally over, everyone congregated at the bottom of the stairs, talking excitedly about what had happened. “That evil woman,” someone snarled.

“She clearly wanted to avoid another scene like Trelawney’s.”

“Hagrid did well, didn’t he? How come all the spells bounced off him?”

“Giant blood.” 

“Dreadful, dreadful. Well, I’m off to bed. Night, all.”

“Night. Hagrid recognized some of them, didn’t he?’

“Called one Dawlish.”

“At least they didn’t get to take him off to Azkaban.”

“Can’t believe they drove him off….”

Hermione shook her head and walked away. Halfway to the Room of Requirement, her leg burned. She swore in her head and ran for the Room, where she could change and get out from underneath the Apparition barriers.

The Dark Lord was excited that night. He refused to divulge his plans for the next day to the Death Eaters writ large, but swore that if they failed he would storm the castle. Dumbledore and McGonagall, the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress, were gone from the castle. The half-giant with resistance to spells had been driven off. The person in charge was a bumbling bureaucrat who’d turned the school against her. There would be no better time to take the school.

Either way, he would kill Harry Potter at last.

Ivana took the cautious route that night, Apparating to Hogsmeade first and entering the Hog’s Head for a drink. Unlike the Three Broomsticks, which was frequented by students, the Hog’s Head was filled with less-than-savory characters. She ordered a Firewhiskey and sipped it, trying not to wince at the taste, as she idly traced the countertop with a finger. Only when she was sure she hadn’t been followed did she Apparate to Grimmauld Place.

There was always someone on duty in the kitchen, and it was there she went first. Hestia Jones was dozing at the table, but snapped awake when she entered.

“Hullo, Pavlova! What brings you here?”

“Has Snape gotten here yet?”

Jones frowned. “Didn’t know he was coming.”

“Yeah, well, unexpected Death Eater meeting. Everyone who can get here needs to get here, something big’s happening tomorrow.”

“How big?”

“He’s planning to take Hogwarts.”

Snape appeared two minutes after Jones had put out the call through the mirrors and nodded at her. “I would have given it more time before coming,” he said. “Apparition can be traced.”

“I was at the Hog’s Head for a while, to make sure.”

Two-thirds of the Order, Dumbledore included, gathered in the kitchen in under twenty minutes. Ivana and Snape conveyed their information rapidly. Neither of them knew what his original plan was for the next day, but they knew he was going after Potter. Dumbledore assigned Snape and Ivana to shadow him and make sure he didn’t leave the castle under any circumstances. He would also warn the other teachers, sans Umbridge, to keep an eye on him.

They knew his entry point, thanks to Ivana, and so they made plans to sneak the Order in through the tunnels. Hermione was pretty sure she could get the Room of Requirement to connect to the tunnel at the Shrieking Shack, and they’d wait in the Room until they were signalled.

There was still a chance the Dark Lord’s original plan could work, and so only half the Order was going to Hogwarts. The other half would remain at Grimmauld Place. Kreacher, Sirius Black’s house elf, skulked around the proceedings until Black told him to go to his room and stay there. He glared at Black, eyes full of loathing, and did as he was bid.

The meeting didn’t break up until close to five in the morning. Ivana’s eyes were blurring with fatigue, and a headache pounded at the base of her skull. Snape dragged her to his office and poured Calming Draught down her throat to keep her from losing it entirely. Then he tried to give her a Sleeping Draught.

“You have an OWL this afternoon,” Snape said. “You need to sleep. _Take_ it, Pavlova. Rest assured I will not tell the Wizarding Examination Authority.”

Ivana gave up and took the bottle. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll watch Potter while you rest. After lunch you can take over - I highly doubt even _Potter_ can disappear in the middle of an OWL.”

“He’ll notice you,” she pointed out.

He sneered. “Disillusionment Charms are wonderful things.”

“Not in crowded hallways,” she shot back. “I have a better chance of following him without being noticed.”

“This isn’t up for debate, Pavlova,” he snapped. “You will rest this morning so that if you are needed this evening, you will not make silly mistakes from fatigue!”

They glared at each other until Hermione gave up. Snape was too stubborn to let this go. She still wasn’t sure why he cared, or how to handle that, but it was almost...nice, to have someone looking out for her.

She slept until lunch, which she spent studying her notes. Once more, the Room had provided former OWLs for her to peruse, and by the time lunch ended she was as prepared as she possibly could be.

She spent the next hour sitting close to Potter, one eye on her notes and one on him. He and Ron sat together, actually studying, and when they were called into the Great Hall at two o’clock he showed no sign of wanting to bolt.

As Snape had said, Potter couldn’t disappear in the middle of an OWL without causing a scene, so once Marchbanks turned the hourglass at the front of the room she put him out of her mind and focused on her test paper.

There were a lot of opinion questions on the test. Hermione realized at once that they wanted the students to back up their answers with examples, but spent a brief, amusing moment imagining the number of test papers they would receive back with only _yes_ or _no_ in the blank. She was certain that near the end of the testing period students would start answering that way, hoping for at least partial credit.

Hermione worked steadily. Ten minutes before the end of the testing period, Potter fell out of his seat, screaming. Everyone’s heads jerked up to stare at him, clutching his head on the ground. Tofty hurried down the aisle and helped him up.

“Let’s get you to the hospital wing, then,” Tofty said, keeping an arm around his elbow.

“I don’t want...I’m not going...I don’t need the hospital wing….” Potter muttered as Tofty led him out. 

Hermione twitched her wand, hidden in her sleeve, and muttered the silver bird spell. “Tell Snape he’s just left the Hall,” she murmured to it, trying very hard to look as though she was just talking to herself. Students were still gawping after Potter; a small bird on the ground underneath a desk wasn’t going to draw much attention. A moment later it had darted through the floor.

Marchbanks clapped her hands at the front of the room. “Eight minutes, everyone.”

A few people jumped. Everyone hurriedly returned to their exam papers. They were collected precisely eight minutes later, and Hermione elbowed her way through the crush of students celebrating the end of exams. She had to find Snape and Potter.

Potter was standing at the top of the marble stairs, scanning the milling crowd. Hermione went straight for him, but Ron Weasley got there first. Potter grabbed him and towed him along the corridor. Hermione burst from the throng and followed them to an empty classroom. She left the door closed and muttered the bird spell again. “Classroom 19C,” she told it. It darted through the ceiling, winging its way toward Snape, who must be looking for Potter on one of the upper levels.

Snape appeared a minute and a half later. “In there?” he demanded.

“Yep.”

“Get to Pavlova,” he said, and opened the door. Hermione darted off to find an empty loo.

She returned five minutes later. Snape was on his mirror, Potter and Weasley standing anxiously behind him. Snape glanced over at her. “Thank you, Lupin,” Snape said. “It seems we know his first plan now. I’ll send Pavlova to open the tunnel.”

“What tunnel?” Potter asked.

“First plan?” Weasley added, confused.

Snape stared at them, face impassive. “The Dark Lord will attack Hogwarts,” he said. “He plans to kill you, Potter.”

Potter’s face drained of blood. “He’s coming _here?_ ”

“Yes, Potter, here,” Snape snapped. “The rightful Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress have both been dispatched. What better time than now?”

“Potter,” Ivana said, drawing his attention. “If he kills you, we lose. He’ll offer to make a trade, you for everyone else, but he _will not honor it._ He will kill everyone he thinks might be a threat. No heroics. We’ll be fighting to kill, so stay the bloody hell away, you understand?”

“But I can help-”

“No,” Snape and Ivana said together.

“We will _lose_ if you die,” Ivana said. “Anyone else, even Dumbledore, we can fight without. But everyone expects you to stop him, and if you die before he does, people give up.” She knew it down to her bones. It had come up in Order meetings more than once. She, personally, thought it was the height of idiocy to put everything on Potter, but it wasn’t up to her.

“But-”

“No,” Snape said harshly. “I will Stun you and chain you up in the dungeons if you try.”

They glared at each other for a long moment before Ivana cleared her throat. “I’ll just - go open the tunnel, then,” she said, and hurried from the room to let Snape handle Potter.

The Room of Requirement joined the tunnel to the Shrieking Shack without apparent effort. Though it felt an eternity, it was really only five minutes before people began emerging from the hole in the wall.

Behind her, the door opened, and she spun, wand raised. It was just Snape, who had brought Flitwick and Sprout along with him.

“He’s caught us up,” Sprout said grimly. “It’s true, then? It’s happening?”

“It’s happening,” Ivana said. “We can’t call in our Auror friends until they’re already here - too much risk otherwise - but they’re waiting for the call.”

“They better be,” Moody grunted. His magical eye spun in its socket. “Don’t think I’ve been in this room before.”

“It’s the Room of Requirement, makes whatever you need,” Ivana said.

“So we could get an enchanted window of the corridor, so we can see when it starts?”

“Probably,” Ivana said. “In fact” - she pointed behind him - “it’s already done it.”

Dumbledore was the last one through the tunnel hole. He climbed down and stroked his beard as he looked around. “Magnificent room,” he remarked to nobody in particular.

“Albus!” Sprout cried.

He smiled at her. “Hello, Pomona. Filius. Are you here to fight, then?”

“I thought we could defend our Houses,” Snape said smoothly. “I, at least, must remain out of sight, and there should be an adult in the common rooms in case any Death Eaters make it that far.”

“Who’s going to get Gryffindor, then?” Ivana asked.

Snape looked directly at her. “You are.”

“No,” she said flatly.

“Yes,” he said, just as flat.

“Hey now,” Jones said, “why her? There are worse duelers.”

Snape and Dumbledore traded significant looks. Hermione snarled, “If it’s because of my age, I’ll be an adult in three months.”

“We can’t have them recognizing you,” Dumbledore said.

“So I’ll change back. You’re not fighting alone! I know them, I know their weaknesses!”

“We’re not risking you!” Snape snapped.

“I’m no more important than anyone else!”

“Sorry,” Jones said, “but did I just hear that you’re only sixteen…?”

“You see?” she demanded. “Nobody knows who I really am. I’ll be as safe as anyone else in the castle, and my cover won’t be blown.”

“Students shouldn’t be fighting,” Snape argued.

Hermione glared. “If we ban them, they’re just going to sneak out and do it anyway. Might as well offer the seventeen-year-olds a chance to join, and get the others to help guard the common rooms.”

“You’re not seventeen yourself!”

“I’m old enough to spy on the Dark Lord! I’m old enough to be Crucio’ed!”

“I tried to talk you out of that!”

“But I did it anyway! I haven’t come this far to back out now.”

“Enough!” Dumbledore bellowed. “Pavlova, you will go to Gryffindor Tower and inform the students of what is happening. Any _adults_ who wish to fight will be allowed; those underage should stay in their common rooms and protect the younger years. Once you have delivered the messages, the student fighters are to meet us here. Pavlova, you will disappear for the duration.”

“Understood.”

“Severus, Pomona, Filius, Ivana, go to your Houses.”

“Um, what’s the Gryffindor password?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, but it was Snape who answered: “ _Schola alumni de._ ”

“ _Schola alumni de,_ ” Hermione muttered. “Got it. Oh - there will be students all through the school -”

“We’ll make an announcement,” Sprout said at once. “Someone should get to the Head’s office-”

“I’ll do it,” Lupin said. “I know the way.”

“The password hasn’t changed, the office sealed itself against Umbridge.” Sprout smirked. “The castle hates her as much as everyone else does.”

“The password is Drooble’s,” Dumbledore told him. “Get going, all of you. We don’t have much time before Voldemort realizes his first plan has failed.”

Lupin Disillusioned himself. The rest of them didn’t bother; nobody would think twice to see them wandering the hallways. Hermione split from them first - Gryffindor Tower was in the same wing as the Room of Requirement. She waited to enter until she heard Lupin’s voice echoing through the corridors: “All students to their common rooms, please, all students to their common rooms.”

She waited a further five minutes, until the last of the Gryffindor students had trickled inside, to give the painting the password and clamber inside.

The room fell silent, all eyes trained on her. “Is this everyone?” she demanded. When they were silent, she snapped, “Look around, is anyone missing?”

Potter and Ron were sitting in chairs by the fire. It was Weasley who spoke: “Nobody from fifth year.”

“Fourth’s all here,” Ginny added.

“Third’s here.”

“Seventh’s here.”

“Sixth’s good.”

“Second is here.”

“First is here.”

“Good.” Ivana pushed her hair out of her face. “The Dark Lord is coming to attack Hogwarts. If-”

She was drowned out by screams. A few of the younger students started to cry. She felt bad for them, but she needed to speak. She shot sparks from her wand until they quieted and gave her their full attention once more.

“If you are of age - seventeen or older - you will have the choice to fight. If you are younger, even by a few months, we need you to stay here to act as guards. If the Death Eaters get past us, you’ll be needed to protect the younger students. That’s especially important here, with your Head of House gone - the other Houses have their Heads with them.” Ivana racked her brain, but couldn’t think of anything she’d forgotten. “Seventeen-year-olds who want to fight, let’s go.”

All of seventh-year and a few sixth-years joined them. Most of the fifth-years tried, but she sent them back in with a threat to seal the portrait shut if they didn’t stay put. When it closed behind them, she sealed it anyway with the strongest locking charms she knew - the Death Eaters would have to get through both the portrait and the charms if they wanted to get inside.

“You all know where the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy is?” They nodded. “They’re all gathering in a room across from there. Get going - I have other things to do.”

“You shouldn’t go alone!” a seventh-year protested.

“They’re not here yet,” Ivana said. “Go.”

She dashed off before they could say anything else, taking the stairs down to the sixth floor and hurtling into a loo to change. Hermione was out in record time, hair bouncing behind her as she sprinted. She was winded when she got back to the Room of Requirement, but that wasn’t going to stop her.

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said. “Pleased to have you here.”

“Pleased to be here,” she said, panting. “Not sure if anyone else is coming, I’m guessing not.”

“Mm.” Dumbledore’s eyes were focused on the window to the corridor. “The other students are being organized by Lupin and Moody.”

She joined them. After that, there was nothing to do but wait. Hermione was Occluding hard to keep the fear from overwhelming her, for once not dragging Ivana to the front to take over - Ivana was just as afraid as Hermione. 

Finally, as it was nearing dusk, there was movement. The statue of the one-eyed witch swung open at the hunchback, and a masked face appeared.

“First wave, let’s go!” Moody roared, and they sprinted down a new passage the room created for them that split in two to let out at either end of the hallway they needed to get to. They split in half when the tunnel forked. Hermione stuck with Moody, Lupin, Jones, and Black. With whispered Disillusionment Charms, she and Moody scurried to the other side of the intersecting hallway.

From the other end of the hall, a Stunner came shooting out to hit the woman helping a comrade climb out of the tunnel. She dropped, and the man she’d been helping fell back inside with a yell and a _thump._

She was revived by one of the others while the rest shielded them. The Order hammered them with spells, not all of them Stunners. Hermione did her best to incapacitate without killing them, but the Death Eaters were so concentrated that five or six could shield while the rest healed their colleagues. Any damage they dealt was reversed almost immediately.

Moody grunted beside her. “May have to get lethal,” he muttered to her. “They certainly will be.”

She nodded and cast another curse.

They kept climbing out of the statue. At least fifty stood in the hall before a tall, slim figure flew up and out.

The Dark Lord had come himself. Hermione hoped like hell Dumbledore was on his way, because if he wasn’t, they were going to die. She cast another curse before the Dark Lord raised his arm and a bolt of evil yellow struck where she had been standing half a second before. It ricocheted off the floor and bounced away down the hall.

“Hello, Tom!” a man shouted over all the spells. The Dark Lord whirled around and saw Dumbledore standing there. He screamed and raised his wand again.

The Order members who had been at the other end of the hallway tumbled out of the passageway and began shooting spells anew. An errant curse Dumbledore had blocked from the Dark Lord took out three Death Eaters and left a smoking pit in the floor. They scrambled to get out of range, their shields dropping as they ran. The order picked off six more before they had to retreat to the intersecting hallway.

They took cover behind the doors and inside classrooms. The Death Eaters were stuck where the hallways joined, still well within range of the spells flying between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. The Order rained curses, hexes, and jinxes on them. Hermione remembered a charm she’d found in a library book and turned the ground beneath their feet into inch-thick ice, making it difficult for them to remain standing.

Still, there were only ten of the Order fighting forty-odd Death Eaters, and it wasn’t surprising that the Death Eaters gained ground. They were forced back, slowly but steadily. Moody fell and didn’t rise. Lupin retaliated with a curse that blew off a woman’s legs.

Hermione didn’t want to kill them, but she knew they would be revived if they were merely hurt. She did what she had to do do, but as she’d told the Dark Lord so long ago, she took no pleasure in killing or torturing. She tried to make it at least quick.

“ _Hem hem!_ ” said a saccharine voice when she darted around a corner. “What is going on here?”

“Get your wand out,” Hermione snapped, shooting a few hexes blindly down the corridor she’d just left. “We’re being attacked.”

“By whom?” Umbridge had the voice of long-suffering patience.

A spell blew a hole in the corner of the wall. Hermione jerked back, rubble scratching her face and getting trapped in her hair.

“Death Eaters,” Hermione snarled, putting up the strongest shield Flitwick had ever taught her. “Dumbledore’s fighting the Dark Lord a few corridors down-”

“There is no Dark Lord!”

“Will you just help us!” Lupin screamed at her. He had a nasty shiner over his right eye.

Umbridge drew her wand, hate glittering in her eyes. “You filthy animal!” she cried.

Hermione Stunned her. “What a bitch.”

“You’re telling me,” Lupin said grimly, shooting off a spell with an intricate wand movement. “I’ll teach you that one later,” he added when he saw her looking.

She grinned. “I’ll hold you to that. _Reducto!_ ”

The man she’d been aiming at hit the wall and became nothing more than a bloody smear. Hermione abruptly recalled the feeling of blood and bone and brain matter hitting her face, and had to shove it out before it took her over.

The battle felt like an eternity. They were pushed back, higher and higher up the castle steps, onto the seventh floor and towards the Gryffindor common room - the only one without a teacher present to guard. Hermione ducked behind Lupin’s block and sent a silver-bird message to anyone available, telling them where they were. The bird darted off and Hermione rolled out from behind Lupin, curses falling from her lips. Black was casting even more quickly, he and Lupin working off each other like they’d done this a thousand times before. Jones had fallen on the sixth floor.

New spells shot towards the Death Eaters from the Grand Staircase. Faced with attack on two fronts, ten dropped before they could cover their flank.Hermione, Black, and Lupin began focusing on one enemy at a time, all of them casting at once - the first spell or two would break the shield, and the third would get through to strike.

“Brutal little thing, you are,” Black said when she blasted a hole in a man’s chest.

“They’re attacking my home,” she said through gritted teeth.

Somehow, between the three of them and the reinforcements that had come up, they won.

“Where are the others?” Shacklebolt asked them in his deep, measured voice.

“No idea,” Lupin said. “We lost Moody and Jones, Dumbledore’s battling it out with Voldemort. That’s all any of us know.” 

Black looked around. “We’re damn near the Gryffindor common room...wanna pop in and see Harry?”

“The others might need help,” Hermione said. “And you’re still a wanted felon, you’ll be cursed before you get in the door.”

Black drooped. Hermione was about to send off a message asking where everyone was and who needed help, but an explosion rocked the castle. She was thrown right off her feet and grunted when she hit the floor. The adults had remained standing but for Tonks, who had fallen onto her rear.

Hermione scrambled to her feet, said, “Room of Requirement, let’s go,” and took off. 

The others kept up with her easily - not only did they have longer legs, but they were in better shape. Hermione led them back to the Room and glanced around. Hestia Jones was sitting in a chair, bleeding from a head wound she was trying to staunch. Arthur Weasley was working on his leg. A Weasley twin was staring in a mirror at the side of his head; he’d stopped the bleeding, but that made it easier to see that he’d lost his ear. Moody was lying on the couch, Madam Pomfrey standing over him. The conscious occupants glanced up as they entered, then went back to what they were doing. 

“We need to see where everyone is,” Hermione said out loud. A glint of light caught her eye, and she turned to see a dozen windows had opened up. In ten of them, the Order had subdued the Death Eaters and were tying them together. In one, Dumbledore and the Dark Lord fought hard enough to bring stones crashing around them. Emeralds, rubies, and citrines were scattered on the floor - they must be in the Entrance Hall, and have broken the tubes that measured House points. On the twelfth, a pack of Death Eaters was torturing someone in Hufflepuff robes.

Hermione pointed to that one. “We need to get there. Anyone recognize where they are?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“All right, then. We’ll need a passage there.”

The sound of grinding stone met her ears. When she looked for the source, a yawning hole in the wall beckoned.

“Who’s coming?” she asked, already moving for it. Lupin, Black, Shacklebolt, Tonks, and the Weasley twin joined her; the rest stayed behind to help the wounded. Shacklebolt, Tonks, and Lupin easily outran her. Black stayed beside her, gasping for breath. By the time they made it out of the tunnel, Tonks, Shacklebolt, and Lupin had downed four. There were eight left. Hermione burst from the end of the passage and shot Blasting Curses at them, getting three out before the element of surprise wore off and she had to shield. 

Bellatrix Lestrange cackled. “Aww, does bitty baby want to play?”

“You bet your ass I do,” Hermione said, and focused on just her. Black joined her.

“Cousin!” Lestrange said delightedly. “How nice to see you again.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

Bellatrix was good - too good. Even working together, Hermione and Black were hard-pressed to land a single curse on her. She slipped a few past their shields - Hermione had to cut her robes off when they tried to strangle her, and Black’s hair shoved itself in his mouth. Lupin cast the counter from where he was dueling Rabastan Lestrange, ducking under Shacklebolt’s shield so he wouldn’t get hit.

Hermione had seen Bellatrix, the night she’d gotten out of Azkaban. She’d watched as Lestrange took out thirteen years of imprisonment on the poor family of Muggles that were serving as ‘entertainment’. If she’d _ever_ been able to feel empathy, or pity, Azkaban had burnt it out of her. 

So when Hermione cast a Decapitation Curse and it got through Lestrange’s shield, she didn’t feel too bad about it.

She turned to find Tonks striking down the final Death Eater. Shacklebolt was leaning against the wall, wiping his forehead free of blood. Tonks fell against the wall, breathing hard.

“You okay?” Shacklebolt asked, looking at her.

“Fine,” she said, but now that she wasn’t fighting for her life, she felt a bit dizzy.

Shacklebolt didn’t seem convinced. “Where’s all that blood coming from?”

“Lestrange, probably,” Hermione said. 

She swayed. Black caught her and swore. “It’s her leg.”

Hermione looked down. “Oh,” she said fuzzily. “That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not,” Lupin said, suddenly _right there._ “Give her over.”

Black handed her off. Lupin hoisted her in his arms and started running. The walls blurred past her, but all of Hermione’s focus was on her leg. Her robes had been split by a curse - Shacklebolt hadn’t seen it because the fabric draped to hide it, but the robe had gaped open in Lupin’s arms. Beneath it was a gash that ran from her knee to the apex of her thigh, easily three inches wide in the middle.

“Shit,” Hermione muttered. “That’s the leg he Marked.”

Lupin kicked open a door. “Madam Pomfrey!” he yelled.

She clutched weakly at his robes. “Lupin...Ivana….”

Her voice trailed away, along with her awareness of the world around her.


	25. Epilogue - Damn It, Granger

Hermione woke to the distinct warmth of sunlight on her chest. Her mouth felt muzzy with sleep. The smell of the hospital wing permeated her nostrils, and the starchy sheets she was wrapped in confirmed that she was in Madam Pomfrey’s domain. For a few moments, she relished in the feeling of waking up without an alarm or emergency to jolt her out of sleep. If she could just do something about the nagging feeling that she was forgetting something, she’d be as contented as a cat in a sunny window.

She remembered what she’d forgotten and shot upright, reaching for her wand even as she stood. Her leg didn’t support her like she was expecting it to, and she toppled over onto her side.

“Granger!” Pomfrey barked.

“Where’s my wand?” she asked, voice high with panic.

“It’s on the bedside table. Up you get, now.” Firm hands grabbed her arms and helped lever her to her feet. “Can you open your eyes?”

Hermione blinked them open, disconcerted to realize she hadn’t even thought of looking around. After a few fuzzy seconds, Pomfrey’s face swam into view.

“There we are, then,” she said, briskly not unkindly. “How does your leg feel?”

Hermione looked down at her pajama-clad leg. “Erm. Numb?”

“That’s good.” Pomfrey pushed her until she was lying down again. “It means the potions are still working.”

“What happened? Who won?”

“We did. Now you just rest-”

“What _happened?_ ” Hermione repeated, more urgently this time. “Is everyone okay? Or at least alive?”

“Miss Granger,” a new voice said irritably, “allow her to answer your questions before you ask new ones!”

Hermione rolled her head. “Professor McGonagall!”

“Yes, Granger,” she said, putting down her copy of the Daily Prophet. “Poppy, I can fill her in, if you’d like to check on your other patients.”

“You do that,” Pomfrey said. “But see she rests before dinner!”

“I can manage that,” McGonagall said dryly. Pomfrey sniffed and vanished behind the curtains hiding another bed. McGonagall fixed her eyes on Hermione. “I understand we have you to thank for the actions of Ivana Pavlova.”

Hermione winced. “Yeah.”

“How on _earth_ did you get involved like that? Don’t you know how _reckless_ it was? How stupid and dangerous?”

“I was just supposed to get friendly with Macnair,” Hermione said. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”

A deep voice from behind her said, “And yet it did.”

She rolled her head once more. “Professor Snape! Are you okay? What hap-”

“Granger,” he said, shaking his head with amused exasperation, “let me answer one question before you ask another.”

“That’s what _I_ told her!” McGonagall said indignantly.

“Are you okay?” she repeated. “You didn’t get caught, did you? What’s happening with the Dark Lord?”

Snape frowned at her, but she could see quiet amusement in the lines of his face. “One question at a time.” He sat in the chair beside her bed with a groan. “To begin with, I am fine. And you?”

“I’m fine,” she said impatiently. “Tell me what happened!”

Snape looked at McGonagall. “It’s the potions.”

“It must be.”

“What must be?” she demanded, almost bouncing with nerves.

“You’re getting manic. It’s a side effect of the tissue-knitting potions you’re on.” His eyes glinted. “It’s a good thing the Dark Lord’s dead. You’re not Occluding at all right now.”

Hermione needed several seconds to process what he’d said. “The Dark Lord - dead? How? _What happened?_ ”

“Dumbledore and the Dark Lord dueled in the Great Hall,” Snape said. “Potter decided to ignore direct orders and went down to fight himself. You taught him to duel.” Snape met and held her eyes. “You taught him well enough he could beat the Dark Lord in a fight.”

“I told him there’s no such thing as fighting fair,” Hermione said. “I told him if someone’s trying to hurt you, you need to hurt them first.”

“Well, he took that to heart. He killed the Dark Lord with a Cutting Curse.”

“And - and that was it? A Cutting Curse was all it took?”

“To hear him tell it. He’s hiding something, but he seems to have learned _something_ of Occlusion, and Albus certainly isn’t saying.”

“He’s fond of his secrets,” McGonagall agreed. Hermione had almost forgotten she was there.

“Oh, yes, and St. Mungo’s has completed the first of the human trials.” Snape actually smiled. “Your potion works just as well as Wolfsbane does - some of the Healers are saying it’s better, with less reported pain when transforming.”

“The - how long have I been out?” she demanded.

“Nearly a week,” McGonagall said.

“Five more months of the testing phase, and it can be released to the public. Congratulations - you’ve earned your Potions Mastery. The ceremony will be this Friday evening.”

“Ivana Pavlova?” she asked.

“That’s up to you. The known Death Eaters are in Azkaban - Dumbledore had to talk fast to keep the two of us out, by the way - so the immediate threat has passed. If you wish, I can write to the Mastery board explaining the circumstances and you can accept the Mastery as Hermione Granger, age sixteen, the youngest Potions Mistress in two centuries.”

“Must have had a good teacher.” She smiled briefly. “The Dark Lord is dead, and the Death Eaters are in Azkaban. Does that mean - is it over?”

“It’s never over,” McGonagall said unexpectedly. “There will always be people who wish to subjugate Muggles and Muggle-borns, and there will always be someone for them to rally around. You-Know-Who’s death doesn’t change that.”

“Nevertheless,” Snape said, “our role as spies is certainly over.” There was a strange glint in his eye when he added, “The Ministry has been trying to contact you about becoming a government spy. I told them to write back when you’ve graduated.”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m not going to do this again,” she said, thinking over the past year. “I _can’t_ do this again.”

Snape looked like he’d expected that answer. McGonagall smiled one of her rare smiles. For the first time a long time, perhaps the first time in her entire life, Hermione Granger thought that maybe, just maybe, she could go on to have a good life.

And eventually, after she moved to the Muggle world, she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fuck I can't believe I finished this. It's definitely my longest non-series story, like, ever. There may or may not be a sequel explaining her move to the Muggle world; it depends on whether I scrape together the motivation to continue. Right now I have it, but in a month, who knows?
> 
> Thank you for reading this all the way through to the end. Peace and cookies,
> 
> Rachel


End file.
